


Deep Inside of You

by holliswrites



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Caretaking, Dom/sub, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Natasha Feels, Natasha Needs a Hug, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexy Times, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Top Steve Rogers, bdsm (eventual), friendship-relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:47:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holliswrites/pseuds/holliswrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no secret that Natasha is very careful, cautious, and controlled,and holds most people at a distance. Her team--Steve especially--has always respected this, but perhaps she needs something else. Something to push her boundaries, to build her trust, to help her go deep and let go. </p>
<p>Steve's a giver, of course, but how much will it cost them both?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that I've had simmering for months. I want to get it done--or at least well on its way--before "The Winter Soldier" comes out, so I'm starting to post some of the chaps I have written. This is where you, YOU, Dear Reader, come in. I solicit your feedback (con-crit is fine, but let there be no shitting on my internet doorstep) and invite you to put in your requests about specific things (wink wink--you'll see what I mean in later chapters.)
> 
> Happy reading!

Almost from the very beginning, Steve takes it as an almost holy duty to take care of his team.

He does in dozens of ways. On missions, he’ll do what he can to take the hardest hits. Afterwards, he’ll defer medical attention until he knows everyone else is safe and cared for. He lectures Tony when he goes rogue, he gives Bruce his distance after he hulks out, he carefully avoids mentioning families and betrayals around Thor. He keeps an eye out for illness and injury and sadness, and he maintains a steady presence. It’s not that he thinks he’s better or more capable. It’s just what he does, and because he wants to do it.

But it goes beyond the silly “leadership qualities and sacrifices” that all the new-fangled management books talk about. For Steve, it’s more personal. They aren’t just soldiers, they’re not just his teammates. They’re more than that, and even thinking of them as “friends” or “family” doesn’t really cover it, not completely. It minimizes their dynamic, almost. He tries to define it sometimes, but he never can, so he always ends up just focusing more on _doing_ than defining. So he does what he can to make sure they are all strong, that they are all cared for, and safe, and comforted, and ready for whatever comes next.

Of all his teammates, Thor has the easiest needs to anticipate and meet. He and Steve get along very well—they are both childlike, almost, in their transparency and decency—and if anyone can explain Midgard customs and technology to Thor without making him feel like a fool, it’s Steve. Plus, Steve proves himself a formidable “shield brother” in the gym, and can listen to Thor rhapsodize about Jane Foster longer than anyone else on the team.

When it comes to Bruce…well, it takes Steve a while to figure out this enigmatic man. _"Still waters run deep"_ is the phrase that comes to mind when he thinks about Bruce, and Steve’s certain he has not yet fully plumbed Bruce’s depths. His genius is inevitably understated when paired with the flamboyance of Tony Stark, but Steve knows that this is how Bruce prefers it. So Steve seeks him out for one-on-one conversations, and says nothing when Bruce chooses to fade into the background when they are surrounded by larger crowds. Every now and then, Bruce gets a little broody, and Steve never says a word. Just orders a ton of Indian food from Bruce’s favorite restauramnt, and asks him to guide him through some meditations, and then watches incomprehensible foreign films with him until Bruce falls into a deep and possibly depressed sleep.

Tony’s company is the unexpected surprise that Steve later feels ashamed to admit he originally overlooked. When it comes to Tony, all Steve can do and give is both very little and very big: he stays out of Tony’s way when the man is in a caffeinated frenzy, he makes sure he doesn’t drink himself into a stupor after the legendary and occasional fights with Pepper, he stays up until all hours with Tony in his workshop, sitting at a workbench and drawing and providing quiet agreement with Tony’s incessant mumblings. But through the drunken ramblings, the genius statements that come from seemingly nowhere, the inexplicable and adventurous tangents that erupt in the most mundane of exchanges, Steve begins to form a coherent view of this man, his generous, prickly heart, his loyalty, and his unique but fierce sense of patriotism.

When Clint is around, Steve finds his company undemanding and enjoyable. He simply sits on the couch with Clint and drinks beer—he doesn't get drunk often (he's very strict about when he consumes Thor's "gloriously potent Asgardian mead, worthy of only the most formidable of warriors" ), but he certainly won’t let a teammate drink alone—and watches television shows and movies. Some of the shows are good, some are awful, but all are rendered fascinating and humorous by Clint’s running commentary and observations. When Clint’s not on a mission, when he’s just hanging around, he can bullshit almost as much as Tony. Steve understands this, accepts this, suspects it is in part to make up for the ominous reticence of Natasha.

As for Natasha, Steve remains unsure of what he can do for her. The camaraderie and friendship and consideration that go so far towards strengthening his bonds with the others seem an insignificant and even irrelevant gesture towards Natasha Romanov, who is professional and polite and coolly friendly at best and inscrutable, standoffish, and rather terrifying at worst. Getting to know her and understand her seems an insurmountable task, so Steve sticks with the basics of what he knows—he doesn’t coddle her, either on the battlefield or off; he gets her opinions on strategy; he doesn’t hold back when he spars with her in the gym; he respects her privacy. But other than that, she’s beyond his understanding. She’s one of his team members, but he has no idea how to connect with her, how to understand her, how to support her.

And then, when he finally learns, it’s an amazing and humbling lesson…yet one that he later thinks, perhaps he should have known all along.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Holy hell. Of all the times when Thor had to bring a bilgesnipe to Earth, why did it have to be when Banner and Stark are at a conference in Prague?”

Steve cringes as he watches Natasha run her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to squeeze out some of the stubbornly sticky, viscous goo that has landed in her hair. She is not happy, not with Thor—who had come up with the inspired idea to pay his Midgard comrads a visit to show off his recently-captured bilgesnipe, and had mistakenly transported it to Prospect Park—not with Bruce Banner or Tony Stark or Clint Barton, all of whom were conveniently away and therefore didn’t have to deal with this particular headache—not with SHIELD, who, as soon as they had ascertained that the situation was under control (meaning no witnesses beyond the usual drunken homeless people, no injuries beyond Natasha’s outfit and dignity, and no property damage), had hastily departed—and certainly not with Steve, whose actions were what had resulted in her current state.

“Well,” Steve tries the reasonable approach, “the thing was coming at you with those antlers. How was I supposed to know that those were the source of…this stuff?”

“This stuff, Steve, is most likely the reproductive juices of an extraterrestrial mammal,” Natasha throws him a baleful look, “That spurted all over me when someone knocked off its damned antlers with his super-shiny-soldier-shield.”

Having fought by Natasha’s side for a while now, Steve has finally grown accustomed to her gruff demeanor, and knows to take it in stride. “You’re definitely a mess,” he agrees. “But on the bright side, at least Tony wasn’t here to see this. He’d never let you live it down.”

“I suppose…I look like hell, so you’re right.” Natasha brings her hand to her face and takes a cautious sniff. “Gaaaah! It smells. Like…”

“Rotten pickles,” Steve agrees cheerfully. “Pretty sure the subway’s out of the question. And no cabbie’s going to let you anywhere near him.”

And then, on top of everything, there’s an ominous rumble of thunder--no doubt a meteorological disturbance caused by Thor’s hasty departure--followed by a deluge of rain.

It’s almost amusing—and yet charmingly reassuring—that the most discomposed he has ever seen Natasha is now, when she’s literally dripping an unknown and possibly toxic substance, and is fretting over her bedraggled appearance. Many times, Steve finds it easy to forget that Natasha’s even a female, but now isn’t one of them. Perhaps for that reason, perhaps because he has so few outlets for it, Steve’s instinctive chivalry rises to the occasion. “Come on,” he says, gingerly tugging on her sleeve and feeling grateful that his gloves keep him from touching the goo, “My place is just a few blocks up this way…Let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

When Steve had purchased his Prospect Heights apartment with his multiple decades’ worth of accumulated pension and military back-pay, he hadn’t done so at first with any particular purpose in mind. He had his home at Stark Towers—an entire floor, in fact—but there was something about a little bolt-hole, a little place to escape to, that prompted him to swallow his dismay at the price and purchase the little 2-bedroom co-op. And even though the heating is non-existent, and the second bedroom is more of a large closet (perfect for a studio, he reasons), it’s a nice little place to have on hand. 

Particularly when he needs a place to go to shed himself and his friends of alien goo.

He respects Natasha’s slightly disgruntled silence as they traverse the distance from the park to his block. It’s a quick walk, and because of the late hour and the foul weather, they encounter few people on the sidewalks. Just as well, because it’s beginning to smell as though the bildsnipe stuff is starting to get very, very rank.

“I think it might be forming a crust,” Natasha says woefully at one point, but other than that, offers no other conversation until they reach the brownstone building that houses Steve and the rest of his gentrified neighbors. She breathes a sigh of relief as she follows Steve up the steps and through the front door, and actually looks happy to see him make a beeline for one of the doors on the first floor. “I really wasn’t in the mood to go up four flights of stairs.”

“That’s good,” Steve says. “’Cause here we are.” He keys a code into the lock on the door, which obligingly opens. “Come in before that wretched smell wakes Ms. Pickett.”

Natasha follows him into a darkened room, and her native curiosity actually outweighs her annoyance for a moment—to her knowledge, none of her teammates have been to Steve’s apartment, and she admits to a certain inquisitiveness. In what sort of place does Captain America live?

She has her answer a moment later, when Steve turns on a lamp to illuminate their surroundings.

“This sure as hell isn’t Stark Tower,” Natasha murmurs without thinking. And it’s true; the two places could not be less alike. Whereas the Tower is austere and enormous and filled with air and light and lots of uglier-than-hell modern art, Steve’s private home is small and even a little crowded—with books and art supplies and photographs and an eclectic mish-mash of furniture that appeared to be an even mixture of Ikea, Pottery Barn, flea markets, and antique stores. But even though there is a certain musty smell to the place that has nothing to do with Natasha’s current state and everything to do with the likelihood that it’s been weeks since Steve has been here, it’s still organized and neat and well-laid out and welcoming. Much like Steve Rogers, come to think of it.

Steve clears his throat, and Natasha directs her attention back to him. “Sorry,” she says. “I should know better than most to respect your privacy.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that I’m worried that you’re going to start oozing on the hardwood floors.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m going to start the shower. Just take your boots off, and I’ll let you know when the shower’s ready.”

He heads further into the apartment, and a moment later, Natasha hears the sound of clanking pipes. Shortly thereafter, Steve reappears. “Shower’s running,” he tells her. “Bathroom is just down the hall. I’ve set out towels and a robe for you, and I’ll try to dig up some old clothes for you to change into. Have at it.”

Natasha doesn’t need to be told twice. Without hesitation, she practically darts past Steve towards the sound of running water and the images of soap and cleanliness that it evokes. So focused is she on that end goal that she doesn’t notice the expression of dismay that crosses Steve’s face as she heads deeper into his home and his closely-guarded privacy.

* * *

Under the pounding, steaming stream of water, Natasha takes her time, allowing the water to sluice away even the memory of the bilgesnipe goo. She washes her hair once, twice, three times with the generic shampoo, quietly laments the lack of conditioner, accepts the fact that Steve is at heart a bachelor, and then turns her attention to the soap and washcloth. She works the soap into a foamy white lather that contrasts with the gooey greenish stuff still running down into the drain, and then she goes to town, scrubbing down every inch of her skin, every orifice. Her movements are like everything else she does when not filling a role—they are economical, lacking in the barest hint of sensuality. She knows she ought to treat her body as something more pleasurable and useful than a mere tool, but most of the time, she doesn't try. She’s spent most of her life accustomed to seeing her own value through others’ eyes and interpretations of her utility, and so she doesn't spend a lot of time  indulging herself.

Eventually, though, she feels clean enough to step out of the shower and wrap herself in the robe that Steve has set out for her. It’s enormous, which doesn’t surprise her at all, and soft and navy and masculine and utterly generic, like one of the gift robes that come available in the men’s section of department stores every year at Christmas. It seems that Steve has settled remarkably well into the 21st century. She finds this both absurd, yet reassuring. They may live in a world with super soldiers and aliens and magic that some people call science, but apparently even super soldiers are susceptible to the same capitalist materials and shopping outlets as the rest of middle-class America is. She thinks that Tony Stark might cry if he realizes this. And god forgive her, that makes her smile just a little.

There’s a knock on the door, and Steve’s voice. “Everything alright?”

“Just fine. The goo burned through your tiles, though."

There’s a pause, and Natasha knows he’s trying to figure out how to read her comment. She can almost feel him smiling. “Okay. Well, send Thor the bill. Anyway, I laid out some clothes for you in my room that you can change into. Just throw your gooey stuff into the washing machine—there’s a stackable unit in the closet to the left of my dresser.

“Sounds good.” Natasha is now energetically rubbing her hair and wringing out as much of the damp as she can. “I’ll be done soon.”

“No rush. I’ll put on a kettle for tea in a moment.”  The sound of Steve’s retreating footsteps and his muffled voice indicate that he’s heading to the kitchen, no doubt trying to give the semi-naked lady some privacy and himself a welcome distraction from the semi-naked lady. He may have adapted fairly well to the 21st century, but he’s still essentially the same Steve Rogers that came off the ice—he’s still rather shy around most females, and utterly respectful of them. It’s unusual, of course, and at times an annoying anachronism in these post-feminism days, but an arresting and endearing trait nonetheless. And now that Natasha has grown used to it and realizes that his shyness and reticence are the genuine article, she has actually begun to find it reassuring—a point of stability, considering their more volatile and mercurial teammates.

She heads into the bedroom that Steve directed her to, and because she’s not a nosy asshole like Clint or Tony, she doesn’t spend a lot of time taking in her surroundings and seeing how it reflects the personality and life of her host. Just glances around to locate the dresser and take in the narrow doors flanking each side, and then locate the change of clothes on the bed. Maybe it’s not the safest approach for a spy-assassin—there was a point in her life where she didn’t walk into any room, any building, anywhere, without first casing every inch of it, assessing it for threats, weapons, escapes, and advantages—maybe she’s going soft, but hell, it’s Steve Rogers. No threats there, and no reason to try to figure him out based on what the thread-count of his sheets are.

Which is why, when she unthinkingly opens the closet door to the right of the dresser, she’s so taken aback by what she finds.

_Since when the hell do stackable units look like this?_

There’s no stackable washer/dryer unit in this little closet, that’s for damned sure. Hell, it’s barely a closet at all, but rather more of a converted storage unit, with several shelves crammed full of a number of items that make even Natasha’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

She’s been in her line of work for so long, that very little about the human race really surprises her any more. It takes all kinds, Coulson used to say, and of course, it was that acceptance that made her transition into SHIELD much less difficult than it could have been, so Natasha has wholeheartedly embraced it as part of her own philosophy. And while she isn’t judging—not at all, actually—she has to admit that she’s more than a little surprised to see that Captain America has what appears to be a small-scale adult fetish store going on in his bedroom closet.

Natasha blinks for a moment and wonders if bilgesnipe goo got into her bloodstream, and if it has hallucinogenic properties. But no, even after she rubs her eyes, she’s still looking at a truly impressive collection of condom boxes, bottle of lubricants and oils, an assortment of nondescript white boxes in varying sizes, a handful of DVDs, a truly formidable assortment of books, and _oh my Christ,_ Natasha finds herself thinking, _is that a flogger?_

Confronted with this, Natasha jerks her eyes away from the rather intriguing looking toy (weapon? Pleasure-enhancer? Even after all of the training she received in the Red Room, she’s still not sure) and focuses on the most normal thing she can find: the books. It’s a remarkable assortment: _The Story of O_ stands next to both of Kinsey’s works on Male and Female Human Sexual Behavior; there are several volumes of _Letters to Penthouse_ , alongside _The Sleeping Beauty Chronicles_ and _Delta of Venus_. There’s _Tropic of Cancer, The Loving Dominant, The Erotic Mind, The Ethical Slut, The Anatomy of Love, The Kama Sutra, The New Bottoming Book…_

For a moment, Natasha feels as though her brain is perilously close to breaking. _What. Just...I don’t. No. What._

_What?_

Her mental incoherence is what brings her back to her senses, and Natasha shakes her head firmly. One thing she knows for damned sure, this isn't something that Steve had meant for her to see, and then she remembers, the closet to the _left_ of his dresser. And Natasha hadn’t paid enough attention, and had gone peeping in the wrong damned closet, the one to the right of his dresser. It’s not often she makes such a simple mistake, and she’s pissed at herself, not just for her lack of attention but for violating Steve’s privacy, however unintentionally.

With utterly methodical care, Natasha eases the closet door shut, steps back, and turns towards the other closet--

“Guess I should be glad you didn’t go digging any deeper.”

Natasha snaps around, more surprised than anything; when the hell did that big galoot of a man learned to be so stealthy? And when the hell had she started losing her edge? She shoves this unnerving question to the back of her head, where she’ll deal with it another time--or better yet, never--and instead focuses on the first response that comes to mind. “Why? Is this the secret entrance to your Red Room of Pain?”

And thank god, the furrow between his eyebrows indicates confusion, which tells Natasha that _50 Shades_ of anything doesn’t grace his bookshelves. “Never mind. I mean, really, never mind, nothing good will come from you pursuing that shit--it’s hackneyed and unrealistic and...” And when the hell has she started channeling Tony Stark, feeling compelled to fill silences with ramblings? Apparently, Steve is wondering the same thing, because bemusement has replaced whatever apprehensive awkwardness that may have been etched on his open, earnest face. She pulls the robe tighter around herself--an unnecessary gesture, the thing is huge--and Steve is now looking as though he doesn't know what to be more embarrassed about, Natasha's discovery or the fact that she made it when wearing perilously few items of clothing.

And what the fuck, Natasha silently marvels; apparently Steve isn't the only one who's embarrassed; Natasha knows she's a little flustered too, and when the hell has that ever happened? She's Natasha Goddamned Romanov, the Black Widow; empty and usually painfully deceptive sex is simply one of the more effective weapons in her arsenal. So Steve Rogers was a little more adventurous than most of them had assumed. Something like that should be exciting news for someone like Tony Stark, but what the hell did it matter to her?

“Anyway. Mixed up which closet it was.” Natasha gestures towards the innocent-looking closet to the left. “How about you show me how this thing works? I usually just send my clothes through the barracks cleaning services or let Stark’s bots deal with them.”

It’s a pathetically transparent attempt to change the subject, but at least it’s relevant, and Steve better fucking appreciate that it’s as much to save his own dignity as it is to allow Natasha time to regain her own composure. And of course he seizes this diversion, and shows Natasha the various settings and knobs and buttons, and once they’ve started the load of laundry, he leads her out of the bedroom. Which makes sense, really, because why on earth would he let her anywhere near his private life now?

The kettle is singing as they emerge from Steve’s bedroom--Natasha doesn't miss that Steve shuts the door very firmly behind them--and Steve moves past Natasha to go take care of the tea preparation. The hall is narrow, and Steve is not, so it isn't surprising that he brushes against Natasha as he heads back towards the kitchen. What is surprising is the way that Natasha is strangely conscious of both his solid mass and the warmth radiating off of him as he comes into contact with her.

Abruptly Natasha turns and heads back towards the bathroom, clutching the bundle of clothing that Steve had left out for her. She moves so quickly and decisively, she isn't aware of Steve pausing and looking at her retreating figure, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

* * *

Five minutes later, Steve hears the bathroom door open and the telltale sounds of Natasha's approaching light tread. He turns from the stove, a cup of tea in both hands. "Chamomile alright with you-gaaaarhh, that's not exactly combat-ready gear, is it?"

Natasha glances down at her clothes  and back up at Steve. "Why are you surprised? They’re your clothes."

It's a valid point, of course. Since this is not his primary residence, Steve had not had much to choose from, so had simply hauled out an old pair of faded sweats and a SHIELD tshirt that he had only worn a time or two. And of course, because he is built like a tank, Natasha is now practically swimming in this outfit. The sweats and shirt obscure all but the most pronounced of her curves, and he can tell that she had to do a complicated knot with the drawstring to keep the sweats from drooping down over her hips. In short, Natasha should look ridiculous.

But she doesn't. Instead, she's standing in Steve's kitchen, dressed in Steve's clothes and looking clean and strangely unguarded and...

To hide his confusion, Steve thrusts her mug of tea to her and makes a feeble attempt to play host. "Do the sweats fit you okay?" The second the words are out of his mouth, he knows that it might be the stupidest thing he's said since....well, the last time he talked to a female in a non-professional capacity. And sure enough, Natasha's left eyebrow goes up.

"Seriously, Cap? You see the knot I had to tie on these pants? You're gonna need the jaws of life to get them off me."

And now Natasha has scored triple points for awkward talk, putting her well in the lead. She realizes this about two seconds later, and actually snaps her jaw shut and claps her hand over her mouth. She forces herself to meet Steve's gaze--

And cannot help but to choke out a giggle as she realizes that on Steve's transparent face, mortification is doing battle and losing--badly--to mirth. She can tell that Steve is trying to be proper and inoffensive, but that he sees the awkwardness and humor in the situation as much as she does. And when she giggles--and what the hell, Natasha doesn't giggle--it's done. Game over. Steve huffs--he will never admit that he snorts--a muffled chuckle, and then he just gives up and laughs.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Forty-five minutes have passed, and they've both recovered from their moment of awkwardness and hilarity. Steve has even pulled out the bottle of whiskey that Tony had given him and the cask of mead that Thor had presented to him. The whiskey went into Natasha's tea, and the mead into Steve's--making a rather nasty concoction, but hey, it's Asgardian mead and it does the job--and they are both relaxed and at ease, talking lightly of shop topics-- everything from Tony's little quirky neuroses to a few of Steve's less angsty war stories to some of Natasha's less classified missions.

Then a mighty gust of wind rattles the windowpane, and Steve instinctively glances towards the window, as though he is just waiting for some trouble to come crashing into the living room. But it's just an autumn storm, with some Thor-inspired enthusiasm added on, and all is well and safe. He makes a conscious effort to relax.

"You're never off-duty, are  you, Cap?" Natasha asks. She's sprawled out in front of the fireplace, soaking in the heat and watching Steve as he assesses the storm outside and its potential threat.

"Guess not," Steve sighs. "Even the most...mundane...things can threaten us, ya know? It doesn't take a disgruntled Asgardian or a Doombot to destroy a building."

Natasha's eyes rove over their surroundings, taking in the carefully-selected furnishings, the mixture of vintage and modern, the feeling of sterility that comes through an equal combination of cleanliness and neglect. "You really like this place, don't you?"

"I do," Steve agrees. "I'm definitely attached. I don't come here a lot at all, but it's a place I have for me. Normally the Avengers Tower is my home. That’s where most of the team is, usually. But for the same reason, sometimes it can get a bit…much. Almost suffocating. Every now and then, I like to sneak away for a little privacy.”

“I have a place of my own, too, to decompress.” Natasha nods in understanding. “Everyone needs to have a place for their secrets.” And then she can’t help it, she has to smirk just a little, and maybe she’s possessed with the spirit of Tony. “Although it looks like you need a whole closet for your secrets.”

Steve groans. “I never should have given you that whiskey.”

Natasha waves her hand airily. “No, it’s cool, seriously. I won’t tell a soul that your entire apartment is essentially the _Red Room of Pain_ \--”

“Wait, you keep saying that! what does that even mean?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “It’s a literary reference--although literary might be a bit too generous a term for it--from some books that came out a while back. An erotica novel focusing on a kinky and rather uninspired romantic relationship. The Red Room of Pain was what the girl called the place where her lover would take her and have his way with her and do things that could have been hot, but somehow just seemed so boring the way the author wrote it...”

Steve’s eyes are as round as little saucers, but surprisingly, he’s not blushing. “What did you say the name of the books were?”

“No! Do yourself a favor and don’t bother. I nodded off towards the end of the first book, and for the record, the _palm of your hand cannot twitch_.” Natasha exhales in annoyance, but then frowns as a thought occurs to her. “It’s got some significance, though, it has to. If only because it reflects something about the female demographics of America...I mean, those books were a hit. Women were all over them. So what does that say about women’s needs and desires? And how they’re being fulfilled--or more likely, not?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, and he is speaking his next words carefully, in a surprisingly quiet tone. “You’re a woman. You read the book, or at least the first one. What does it say about your needs and desires?”

Natasha shrugs and finishes the last of her tea. She holds out her cup to Steve, who obligingly pours more of the whiskey in. Only after she’s taken a hefty gulp does she answer Steve’s question. “It didn’t reveal a damned thing about my needs and desires--although I _do_ desire prose that’s a little less hackneyed. Anyway, I’m not like most women, so I’m not the best basis for comparison, and furthermore, it’s not like I’m spending a lot of time thinking about hot fantasy sex.”

"Is this where Tony would say something like, why think about it when you can just have it?" Steve rises from his place on the floor and flashes Natasha a little grin as he head back to the kitchen for more of his tea-and-mead concoction. Judging by the jaunty little walk Steve's got going on, he's pretty proud of his little joke, and Natasha is pleased for him. He's come a very long way from the uncertain, uptight soldier they had plucked out of the ice mere months ago.

Natasha almost hates to destroy his notions of her. "Nope. It's where I say something about how I'm not having much recreatonal sex, in either thought or deed."

Even though Steve is in an entirely different, separate room, Natasha hears the clatter of his teacup as he suddenly sets it down on the counter. A moment later, he comes back out of the kitchen, this time clutching a tankard--another gift from Thor. His face is a study in confusion. “The hell you say?”

“God, this must be critical, if you’re swearing,” Natasha sighs theatrically. “I said, I’m not having much--”

“Okay, yeah, yeah, I heard--and for the record, I’m from Brooklyn. I can swear when the fuckin’ situation calls for it.”

“First time I’ve heard it,” Natasha points out quickly.

“It’s the first time I’ve heard one of the hottest-looking gals I know tells me she’s not getting any action!” Steve actually seems quite flustered. “What the hell? Are you pulling my leg?”

Natasha takes another gulp of her drink, and looks pointedly at Steve’s tankard. “Drink up, comrade. There’s no way we are discussing this while either of us are sober.”

As Steve throws back his drink with almost comical speed, Natasha foregoes her spot on the floor, and instead sprawls out on the couch, laying on her side and leaning on her elbow as she props her head up on her hand. It’s a deliberate choice of pose--confiding, almost intimate, yet with not a hint of seduction. And Natasha knows her choice is a good one when he turns and looks at her, his expression one of all curiosity and no lewd expectation.

“So what’s the deal?” he asks. “I’ve been around SHIELD long enough to know that there’s no shortage of fellas that would want to f--make time with you.”

Natasha can’t help but to smile at Steve’s combination of vernacular, both old and new. “Steve, let’s just put this out there and acknowledge the big elephant. You do know what I do for SHIELD when I’m not avenging and saving the world with you guys? And sometimes what I have to do even when I  _am_ avenging and saving the world?"

Suddenly, everything feels a lot less easy and light-hearted to Steve, and he actually feels himself blushing with chagrin. He does know what Natasha does, and she’s right--it’s the thing that none of them ever talk about or even really acknowledge. For Steve, it’s easier if he doesn’t think about it--that his brave, deadly, fiercely intelligent comrade-in-arms essentially spends a lot of her life seducing, deceiving, tricking, and yes, fucking information out of people and sometimes killing them when she’s done. He knows it’s not something she is proud of--he knows because she rarely, if ever, refers to that portion of her work.

He realizes then that he’s been quiet for a rather long moment, and that Natasha is beginning to look guarded, as though she is regretting having brought this up. “Sorry. No, I know...the things you do for SHIELD. The things you do for _us_ , and for our country,” he adds, and knows that this is the right response, even if it does sound a little pompous. “I think what you do is a heck of a lot tougher than what I, or even Clint or Tony, has to do. We just have to attack, defend, fight, kill, if necessary. Pretty straightforward stuff. But you--you’ve got to do stuff that’s gotta be hard and demanding on so many levels. It’s just...I imagine that it’s tough, even for you, and it’s, I guess....I guess we just respect you too much to try to get you to talk about it.”

He falls silent, wondering if he’s said absolutely the stupidest and wrongest thing possible. But then Natasha blinks, as though she’s surprised by his words, and then slowly nods.

“Leave it to you, Cap, to understand.” She smiles, and it’s just a small smile, a guarded smile, but genuine. “It _would_ be the team’s leader who gets it. But yeah, anyway. Completely apart from the jet-setting, world-saving lifestyle, the whole ‘professional seductress’ really can put a damper on the whole dating thing. Hard as hell to meet someone outside of work, let alone get involved, and as for within SHIELD, that’s just as hard, if not worse. Plenty of the guys like me, respect me, even lust after me. But they’re afraid of me, or they just know what a potential mess it could be, so they don’t want to get involved. Or else it’s a big game to try to score with the Black Widow, try to get her to fall for them.”

Steve sees what she means, but.. “Well, you said yourself, there’s plenty of guys there that probably lust after you. Why not just....something casual?”

About to swallow another swig of her whiskey, Natasha actually coughs, hard. When she catches her breath, she manages to strangle out, “Did...Captain America just advocate for me to engage in a one-night stand or a friends-with-benefits situation?”

“ _Captain America_ didn’t advocate anything. And _I_ only suggested. I’m not a casual sex kinda guy, myself, but I’m not blind, and I know it happens. A lot. And that it’s the usual thing. Which is fine.”

“So nice to know we have your stamp of approval,” Natasha drawls. “Well, anyway, no. Nice idea in theory, but in practice, that won’t fly.”

She doesn’t extrapolate, not at first--she feels like her reasoning might sound a bit foolish, especially coming from her--but Steve nods and motions for her to continue, and hell, maybe it is a stupid thing, but it’s _her_ stupid thing, goddammit.  “So much of what I do is about sex and seduction and deception and lies and faking,” she finally blurts, and it feels wrong even saying it, because no matter how much Steve might swear or make references casual sex and seem to accept the moral ambiguity of her life, he’s still Steve and he’s simply one of the kindest, most straightforward and upright people she knows, and it feels wrong to make him have to acknowledge this part of her life, “That it seems like sex is just this cheap, pointless, disposable thing. A tool. And whenever I’m...using that tool, as part of the job, it’s potentially dangerous, so I have to be extra careful, always on my guard, always in control, always keeping a presence of mind. Never trusting, never feeling. After a while, it gets to be a habit. A necessary, life-saving habit, true, but a tough one to break. I’ve become...untouchable, keeping those kind of emotions at bay.”

Steve nods like he understands, and who knows? Maybe he does. God knows he’s surprised her enough this evening. “Your professional habits bleed into your personal life, huh?”

“That’s the long and short of it. In other words, not a lot of opportunities for sex outside of work, and even less opportunities to have enjoyable sex, with someone I trust and genuinely like. So here I am.”

“That’s...really discouraging.”

Natasha shrugs. “I’ve learned to deal. After all,” she decides it’s long past time to lighten the mood, and so she gives him a little smile, “I can trust myself.”

It takes a moment for Steve to register the meaning behind her words, and just like that, an image pops into his head, unbidden, an image of Natasha, laying in her bed at the Tower, all alone, her delicate fingers dancing across her own skin, stroking against her-- “Aurgh,” Steve chokes out before he manages to block this mental picture because christ, this is Natasha. “Good to know. I think.”

“So anyway,” Natasha says pointedly. “Since it’s Show and Share night with the class, I think it’s your turn to talk, Steve.”

After all they’ve discussed tonight, Natasha finds it hard to believe that Steve would blush, but what do you know? A red stain is stealing up into that perfect Irish complexion of his, and Natasha cannot resist a little smirk. “You’re embarrassed, Steve? Really?”

“Not embarrassed, as such.” Steve actually rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head, as though trying to shield himself from her gaze as he tries to articulate his thoughts. “It’s just...this whole modern dating thing, and the sex...I’m still learning the ropes...”

“No pun intended?”

He gives her a dirty look but continues. “I didn’t get to do much dating before...before the ice. I was pretty awkward with the girls, even the chorus girls I traveled with. I never assumed they they were cheap or easy types, and for the most part, that was the correct assumption to make. So even with them I just kept my distance. And then I got so involved with the war that dating just...wasn’t much of a priority.”

“And then you jumped ahead to now...”

“And everything’s different, and yeah, yeah, society is more free and permissive and it’s great, but I’m still trying to figure out what I want and how to be me without feeling weird about it.” Steve gestures, and Natasha knows that he is indicating his private stash in his bedroom. “So when I got...into the, um, dating world, I decided that the best way to adjust was to just...go for it, and try to learn.”

“I didn’t even know you were dating anyone,” Natasha admits, and yes, it’s a little galling that he managed to slip that past her.

“Not now, I’m not. I was dating someone, and it was pretty fun and intense, but it didn’t last more than a couple of months.” And from the way his voice changes, lowers and gets a little rough-sounding,  Natasha can tell that he made very good use of his intense time with his mystery partner.

“She...or he...was who introduced you to kinky sex?” Natasha prompts.

“She did, yes. She was quite willing to help me explore. Although,” Steve adds primly, “I dislike the term _kinky_. The very word adds an unnecessary implication of deviance and...illicitness...why are you laughing?”

It takes Natasha a moment to catch her breath. When she is finally capable of articulating her words, though, the expression on Steve’s face almost makes her lose it again. “Okay, Steve, first of all, the very illicit nature of kink is what makes it hot to a lot of people, so try to let go of your little inhibition there. Second, I hate to break it to you, but any attempts you make to be discreet about your partner are completely ruined when you start quoting the same thing that Agent Hill has been blathering about in the mess hall for years.”

For half a second, Steve sits in stunned silence, but then he groans. “Aw, shit.”

“Sounds like Hill trained you really well,” Natasha mused. “Who knew she’d be such an exacting task-mistress?”

“Yeah, yeah, get it out of your system.”

Eventually, Natasha does, and manages to stop her juvenile chortling. “I’m sorry. It’s just, for so long we all have a certain perception of who you are, and then you go and make us change all our assumptions.”

“Probably not a good idea to put me on a pedestal like that, you know,” Steve points out, and he’s utterly serious. “I can mess things up as good as anyone can.”

Natasha shakes her head. “I’m not sure, Steve. After all, that’s why Erskine chose you--you were already a good, honest, kind person. The serum made you become moreso. And your humility just further magnifies that. That’s why you’re the perfect leader for the Avengers. And that’s why I like returning from my missions--returning to a team that’s led by someone who embodies simple goodness. You can’t know how worthy it helps me to feel.”

Steve has read some of her files; he knows plenty about her; he knows that morality is not something that comes easily to Natasha, not with so many years of conditioning and brutality fighting against long-quelled moral instincts. He knows she tries to do right, by her team and by her adopted country and by humanity, and he thinks that her efforts actually mean more than his do, as her efforts come from a much more complicated place and are the result of a conscious effort and choice, and not of a necessarily instinctive compulsion..

“Anyhow,” Natasha continues with that uncanny ability she has to sense when things have gotten too heavy, “Top or bottom?”

“Huh?”

“Dom or sub?”

“Oh.”  Steve smiles as he remembers. “I started as a...switch, I guess? I figured it was a good idea to learn about it from both sides. Although,” he adds, and his voice gets that strange, rough quality again, “I have my preferences. I got into the dominant role quite a bit. I think I probably like that one more.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Steve knows he sounds a little defensive, but Natasha’s reaction puts him a little on his guard. “Does that weird you out?”

“Please, Steve. Remember who you’re talking to. I just assumed, I guess, that with all of the responsibility you have, as the leader, and how seriously you take your duties as a world-saving Avenger, you’d want to, I don’t know, give up control where you can.”

“Now who’s forgetting who they are talking to? Natasha, I have _no_ control. Not over just about anything.” Is that bitterness that Natasha hears in Steve’s voice? “You know that as much as any of us. I can’t even keep Tony in line. So how do I have control? I’m one rogue doombot, one extra-evil megalomaniac, one building collapsing on you or Clint, or one uncontrollable Hulk-smash away from utter chaos. There’s no control over what I do, or what happens. There’s only strategy, and work, and a certain amount of luck. So I’ll take my control where I can get it, and I’ll enjoy it. Especially if it means that someone else can enjoy it, too.”

Abruptly he falls silent, and he finds that he is as surprised by his own vehemence as Natasha appears to be. To hide his confusion, he gets up and carries his tankard to the kitchen and dumps it in the sink, turns the water on, and begins to wash out the vessel.  And then he simply stands there, waiting, and listening.

So of course he hears Natasha approach. “You sure you’re not freaked out?” he asks, forcing himself to turn around to meet her gaze. “Captain America isn’t a saint, but instead has some raunchy proclivities?”

And because Natasha is a master spy and a superior actress, she doesn’t betray the strange sensation she gets for one instant, when she recalls Steve’s words. _So I’ll take my control where I’ll get it, and I’ll enjoy it._ “It’s fine, Cap,” she says, and her voice is as low and unruffled as always, not betraying her own confusion at her reaction. “Seriously, I think Stark probably still has you beat when it comes to weird sex shit. And it’s not like any of the rest of the Avengers are nuns.” She comes to stand beside him, and playfully bumps him with her shoulder. “I think it’s kinda....well, kinda cool. It makes you seem more real.”

Steve looks off into the middle distance for a moment, and then he smiles down at Natasha. “Guess we both got a little more real tonight, huh?”

And just like that, Natasha reverts back to the superior, cool colleague that Steve has known her as for the last several months. “As real as anything ever gets in our line of work, Cap. Most days it seems to me like the more something seems real, the less genuine it is.”

* * *

Not long after this, Natasha takes off. She doesn’t actually tell Steve that this is what she does--she simply mentions that she is going to use the bathroom, and ten minutes later, when Steve’s finally realized that something’s up, it’s too late. The tiny bathroom window is open, and she’s long gone. She did leave a hastily-scrawled note

_Cap--Thanks for the company this evening. Definitely made for fascinating conversation._ _Figured I’d take off while the storm slacked off a little. Didn’t want to keep you tied up all night._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in updating. In the future, I shall try to do so at least once a week. Please bear with me!

_**One Week Later** _

It’s the first night that all of them are back under one roof--Tony and Bruce have returned from their conference, Clint has returned from his mission, Steve has shown up after a three-day absence which entailed fundraising and good works, and even Thor and Pepper have made appearances. Granted, Pepper’s still distracted by various work issues, and Thor is preoccupied with arranging a rendezvous with his “lovely Jane”, but even so, they are all together, and  they are their most genuine selves.

Natasha is actually the last arrival--just a day after the bilgesnipe incident in Brooklyn, SHIELD summoned her for a short-term mission and sent her off to Western Oregon, of all places, and she’s just now returning from her debriefing. As missions went, this one had been pretty straightforward; she had posed as an intrepid and pert environmentalist reporter and a very pleasing distraction from her undercover colleagues who were doing the really deep and dirty digging. At the end of the day, there had been no gunfire, no bloodshed, only a quiet arrest once they had located the person who had been arranging the shipments to North Korea. As far as Natasha's concerned, any mission where she didn't have to fuck anyone or kill anyone was a success. It helps her come home at least a little bit cleaner.

The elevator slides open, and Natasha steps into the common area. Immediately, the soothing, cultured voice of JARVIS greet her. “Good evening, Agent Romanoff--”

“Nat!” Clint is the first, as always, to welcome her, but he doesn't get up from his seat at the dining room table. He gives a friendly wave, and then returns to his food. Early on in life, he had learned never to turn his back on a meal. From his experience, it might not be there when he turns back around.

Thor has no such reservations, and with the innocent trust of a child who believes that there will always be sustenance at hand, he abandons his meal to galumph towards Natasha. “Lady of the Widows!” he proclaims, and his newest title is enough to make the rest of the group laugh or groan, “Welcome back to your comrades! Now we are all truly reunited! Won’t you join us in this celebratory repast?” He throws his arm around Natasha’s shoulders and ushers her towards the table without giving her a chance to refuse. “Captain, would you prepare the Lady a trencher?”

From where he’s standing in the kitchen, near the stove, Steve looks up and flashes a grin to Natasha. “A trencher,” he good-naturedly repeats. “Sure thing. Tony and Pepper ordered in a bunch of Vietnamese food, is that okay?”

“Toss it on a plate, I’m not picky.” Natasha gives Steve a tired but grateful nod and allows Thor to steer her towards an empty seat between him and Clint. “Thanks, Thor. Hey, you,” she adds to Clint, and there’s no need for them to touch, the familiar affection in her voice speaks volumes. Steve notices it as he approaches with a plate laden down with food, and smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little. He can tell by the set of Natasha’s shoulders, her limited conversation, and her guarded expression, that she’s still transitioning from her “Mission Mode”, and he’s glad that there are trusted and familiar people surrounding her. “Dig in,” he tells her before resuming his seat at--where else?--the head of the table.

Quietly, Natasha obeys, feeling the comforting pressure of Clint’s leg pressed up against hers on her right, and the barely-controlled energy of Thor on her left. Across from her sit Tony, Pepper, and Bruce, the three of them forming a tidy little trio.

“Wine, Natasha?” Pepper asks just then, proffering a bottle to Natasha. “It’s a good vintage.”

“I’ll pass,” Natasha declines as politely as she can. “I’m so jet-lagged I’ll probably just pass out in the middle of dinner.”

“And that Midgardian libation is too weak for the likes of myself and the Captain!” Thor chimes in. “Captain of America, what say you to some of our Asgardian mead? It’s enough to lubricate the most dour of spirits and beguile the most timid of the ladies!”

“Is he sure he doesn't have that backwards?” Clint mutters, but it’s loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. Pepper rolls her eyes, Tony chortles, Bruce simply shakes his head, and Natasha tries very hard not to choke on her Bun-ga-nuong. When she’s sure she has not snorted vermicelli noodles, she steals a glance at Steve. He’s blushing just a little, but that’s not surprising. “No mead for me tonight, Thor,” Steve declines. “A little of it goes a long way, and I prefer to beguile the ladies the old-fashioned way.”

Now Natasha nearly does choke, and gives Steve a sharp glance. But he’s not even looking at her, he’s turned his attention to Tony, who asks if the “old-fashioned way” includes offering a dowry. “‘Cause I hate to break it to you, Cap, but inflation’s a real bitch.”

And now Thor is chiming in, holding forth on Asgardian mating rituals, and Pepper’s about to go on a roll about the patriarchy and oppression, and Clint’s just looking for an opening to bait her, and Natasha allows herself a minute sigh of relief as she steals another glance at Steve. He happens to glance her way just then, and he gives her the same smile that she’s seen a hundred times before. His expression is as open and friendly as ever, with not even a hint of that he’s thinking about that strange evening a week ago.

As Natasha resumes eating, she refuses to consider whether she finds this to be a good or bad thing.

The meal continues on around her, and Natasha allows herself to ease into the friendly, soothing hum of the voices of the people she is slowly coming to trust. She simply listens, passively, as the conversation, debates, and occasional laughter ebb and flow around her. Occasionally she takes a bite of her food or a sip from the water glass that Clint has passed to her, but that’s about it. Looks like she’s more jet-lagged than she thought, but no doubt three days of very little sleep have played their role, too.

“Okay, Nat.” Suddenly Clint is giving her shoulder a little shake. “Up and at ‘em. We’re decamping to the sitting area.”

“Where we’ll all...sit?” Natasha is pleased with herself for this response, given her increasing drowsiness, but Clint merely heaves a sigh and hauls her up. Reluctantly, Natasha finds her feet and allows Clint to steer her towards the sitting area, trailing after the others. Only Steve lingers at the dining room table, gathering up the dishes but still keeping a vigilant eye on his team as he does.

Ten minutes later, Steve has finished up cleaning duty and has joined them all on the big, u-shaped leather couch in the seating area. Pepper’s engrossed in some paperwork, and Thor appears to be struggling with some handheld video game device, but Tony and Bruce and Clint are looking expectantly at Steve. “Your turn to choose, Cap,” Tony prompts him. “But I think you said you wanted to watch _Terminator?_ Or else... _Die Hard_?”

Steve glances around at the others, and his gaze falls upon Natasha, who is already curled up at one end of the couch, her eyes closed and her chest rising, falling with even breaths. “Not in the mood,” he tells Tony. “How about _Gandhi_? Or maybe _Amelie_? Something a little more...tame.”

He knows Clint is giving him a sharp look as he says this, and he knows, too, that Clint’s gaze only grows sharper when he passes Clint a throw blanket and nods to Natasha. But he ignores this and settles deep into the sofa to watch what Tony finally, and with a little vindictiveness, settles on: _The Notebook_.

 

* * *

 

It’s so late it’s early when Natasha wakes up. She’s curled up at the end of one of the couches, a soft blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her neck’s got a little crick in it, and she winces as she stretches and hears the pop. Time for her real bed. She’s alone in the seating area, so everyone, probably even Tony, went to bed hours ago.

With practiced stealth, she rises from the couch and heads to the elevator. A moment later, she’s stepping out on to her floor. It’s a big floor, bigger than her SHIELD bunk of course, bigger than her own private apartment. Tony had re-designed the penthouse portion of the building so that the common floor--the kitchen, the library, the dining area, the seating area--actually has an atrium-like ceiling, seven stories high. All of the other six floors have a hallway, looking out over the common floor, and off of the hallways are a number of doors, leading to their private rooms. The higher the floors, the smaller the square footage. Clint has the highest floor, of course, and therefore the smallest; both of these attributes are exactly to his preference. Natasha’s floor is the one below his, and is slightly bigger--her rooms consist of a large bedroom, a very posh bathroom, a study, and a kitchen that she never uses.

She’s about to step out of the hall and into her bedroom when, almost too late, she senses someone behind her. She spins around and nearly collides with a very substantial body.

“It’s okay. It’s me.”

She exhales with a quiet, relieve whoosh as Steve’s voice registers  in her brain. “Jesus. Are you lost?”

Even with the city lights shining in through the ten-story atrium windows, it’s still too dim to see, but Natasha feels Steve’s hands on her shoulders. “No. I’m supposed to be here.”

His hands move from her shoulders to her neck, cradling her head at the juncture of her jaw, and his mouth is on hers, a gentle yet demanding force as his tongue sweeps her lips, coaxing them open--christ, as if she needed convincing--and then his hands are moving from her neck down to the hem of her shirt, and he’s pulling up her shirt and his kiss is getting more demanding, more greedy--and who knew Steve could kiss like that? _Still waters run deep,_ Natasha thinks again, as she contemplates the intense, possibly violent passions that seem to run through the controlled, formidable Captain. And thinking about these passions actually tears a raw moan through her throat--

“Nat.”

Jesus, why is he talking? Sure, she likes what he has to say, he’s an engaging conversationalist,  but really? Now? She moans again, this time in protest, as he pulls his hand away from her face, puts it back on her shoulder, and shakes her hard.

“Nat.”

And then it’s not Steve’s voice, or Steve’s hand. It’s Clint who’s speaking, who’s waking her up.

Fuck. She sits up, and the blanket falls away. She’s aware of everyone else sitting around, their attention drawn away from the television. “Fuck.”

“You okay, Nat?” In the dim room, illuminated by only the enormous television, she could see Clint’s eyes twinkling with merriment. He more than anyone in the room knew the sound of her moans, but bless him, he wouldn't out her. “Hell of a nightmare. You want to go to bed?”

“Sounds good. I’m done in.” And she’s desperate to leave with her dignity intact, and not reveal the fact that she just had an erotic dream about _Steve fucking Rogers._ “G’night, everyone.”

They all chorus their good nights, and most of  them turn back to the movie--and Natasha doesn't look back to see that two of her teammates aren't paying attention any longer. She doesn't see Clint, his eyes amused and narrowed in thought, and Steve, who is frowning thoughtfully even as his eyes darken with some hidden emotion.

She doesn't see any of this, because she’s too busy focusing on one single dismayed thought:

_Well, fuck._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they’re all already gathered in the dining area for breakfast when Natasha shuffles in. Even Tony’s awake and alert, chugging a smoothie and equally absorbed in his StarkPad and a running commentary with whoever happens to be listening. Since Bruce and Steve are on kitchen duty--Bruce is the cook, Steve the assistant--and Thor is absorbed in reading the nutrition labels on boxes of cereal--the task of listening falls to Clint. Natasha gives him a grimace of sympathy, but makes no effort to divert Tony’s attention and engage him. She’s still exhausted--the jet lag, along with last night's most unwelcome dream, were quite enough to throw her off any chance of getting solid rest, and she’s not charitable enough to rescue her closest friend from Tony Stark.

It doesn't take any of them long to see that she is in, as Tony calls it immediately, “a high bitch of a mood.” He doesn't wilt under the look that either Nat or Steve give him when he makes this observation, though.

“What? It’s true. Clint, tell me it’s not true. The Widow’s been looking daggers at us over her Wheaties for the past twenty minutes.”

“I value my life and my nuts, Stark,” Clint tells him as he reaches for a slice of the turkey bacon that Bruce had just set down on the table. “If Nat wants to be bitchy, more power to her. Seeing your mug across the kitchen table first thing in the morning would be enough to put most of us out of sorts. I don’t get how Pepper does it.”

Tony snorts as he taps away at his StarkPad. “Pepper’s a relationship genius. She’s up at five and out the door by six precisely so she doesn't have to look at my mug. Fortunately for her it’s a double bonus. This morning she doesn't have to see me or our friendly Tower Spider’s snarling mug.”

A loud clink pulls even Thor’s attention away from Jane; most eyes at the table swivel to Steve, who’s standing by Natasha’s chair and has just set down a coffee cup and saucer by her elbow, a little bit more forcefully than perhaps necessary. But the expression on his face is as open and genial as ever as he speaks. “Knock it off, Tony. Natasha doesn't snarl, not unless she doesn't get any of the coffee.” He gives her a friendly smile before he turns back towards the kitchen to help Bruce--he can’t cook worth a damn, but he can clean.

Natasha smiles at his retreating back, almost coaxed out of her foul mood. But then Clint coughs, very very lightly, and she snaps her attention back to her soggy cereal and curses the fact that she lives in a very wealthy, well-appointed dorm hall.

_Fuck._

* * *

 

Given the chaotic nature of their lives, it’s rather unusual for so many of them to be under one roof for a protracted period of time. More often than not, in the past months since they've all lived together, usually two or more of them are absent at any one given time, saving the world--or another world--or running a corporation or conducting super-secret science or soldier stuff. Quickly they all grew accustomed to the fact that today’s sparring partner might tomorrow be on the news, or else perhaps in Pyongyang, diffusing some sort of pending catastrophe. The same person might, three days later, be stuck in a hospital or a debriefing room.

And yet, this time, some stars in some galaxy must have come into alignment--because as the days slip by, most mornings find the kitchen crowded with the same people, their expressions becoming pleasantly surprised--and then amused--and then finally, mostly indifferent, as they grow more accustomed to each others’ presence. It’s a very lucky that they live in such spacious quarters; with so many personalities, and so many powers, put together in a semi-communal living situation, there’s plenty of potential for drama. But surprisingly, things work, Steve thinks to himself towards the end of their second week together. Clint often disappears for hours at a stretch (Tony insists that he’s hiding in the air vents) and Tony simply skedaddles for even longer than that, heading down to his workshop to do incomprehensible things that nonetheless make his eyes glow as brightly as the reactor nestled in his chest. Thor is so unfailingly good-natured that no one can begrudge his hearty voice and boisterous movements, and anyway, much of the time he is closeted away on his floor with Jane, the two of them spending as much time together as possible before Thor is summoned back to Asgard.

The one person on their team who does not seem thrilled with the current living situation is, oddly enough, Natasha. As the days pass by, she seems to grow more distant, less communicative--and Steve knows he isn’t imagining it, because more than once he’s seen the others exchange glances of confusion in response to her behaviors. The hell of it is, Steve has always assumed Nat was the most unflappable, patient one of them, the one least likely to be rattled by the chaos and communality that are at the heart of this living situation. Not so, it seems--they all begin to see less and less of her, and while she’s never rude or even unpleasant when she is around, she’s increasingly distant and quiet. Steve’s beginning to wonder if she’s deliberately avoiding them all, even Clint.

The day comes when she doesn't show up for breakfast, which isn't unusual, but as Steve begins to ponder this, he realizes something that is unusual: he hasn't seen her since breakfast _yesterday._

“Where’s Natasha?” he asks suddenly.

Not for the first time, Steve reflects, he’s beginning to appreciate the chief complaint that he hears women make against men in the twenty-first century: they’re so clueless. Now, as he watches Bruce, and Thor, and even Clint swivel their eyes towards him, their pupils practically in the shape of question marks, he’s beginning to wonder if maybe the ladies are onto something there.

“Natasha?” Bruce repeats, drawing the words out.

“You know--short, red hair, in possession of possibly lethal eyelashes? She’s not around much these days.” Steve turns to Clint, who simply shrugs; if he knows something, he’s keeping quiet.

“She’s avoiding us.”

Struggling hard to mask his surprise, Steve turns to Tony. “How do you know?”

“Because JARVIS has been helping her, haven’t you, old pal? Letting her know where we all are, and when.”

“I have been assisting Agent Romanov in her endeavor, yes.”

“And you know this how?” Steve asks Tony.

“Pepper pointed it out, like, days ago. So I asked JARVIS. Who knows? Maybe she’s gotta case of superspy hormones. I wouldn't worry about it, Cap. When she wants to come out and play, she knows where to find us, especially with our friendly neighborhood AI conspiring with her.”

Clearly, no one else is concerned--Bruce has returned to his fruit salad, Thor his pop-tarts, and Tony his coffee. Clint is the only one who doesn't resume his breakfast--and that’s because he takes his half-eaten bowl of cornflakes and dumps it in the sink--

Clint never leaves his food uneaten.

Steve stares intently, but Clint is actually looking at anything but him. And that tells Steve everything he needs to know. Something is going on with Natasha, and Clint knows more than he’s letting on.

 

* * *

 

“Please?”

“No, sir.”

“C’mon, really. Please? You won’t tell me where she is?”

“Regretfully, I must decline.”

Steve is beginning to realize just how difficult it is to persuade an AI to do something. By their very nature, they are impervious to threats, bribery, manipulation, charm, or even seduction--briefly, he wonders how Natasha talked JARVIS into supporting her disappearing act--and so, there’s really very little one can do to talk them around. As he is currently learning. “JARVIS, I know you want to stay faithful to whatever it was Agent Romanov told you to do, but don’t you think maybe it would be better for her if she weren't so isolated from her friends?”

JARVIS hesitated for a moment before answering. “I regret to inform you, sir, that you are not the first person who has presented this line of logic to me today.”  
  
Steve shakes his head. “Hope you were more cooperative with them.”

“I was, sir.”

Well, that wasn't the answer he’s expecting. “Why the hell?”

“Agent Romanov gave me instructions to comply with this person.”

“Of course she did. And this person is...” Steve doesn't even know why he’s fishing, he knows exactly who JARVIS is going to identify even before he confirms it.

“Agent Barton.”

“And are you allowed to tell me where Agent Barton is?”

“With pleasure, Captain. Agent Barton is currently in the gym.”

Steve suppresses a smile as he admires the AI’s ability to finagle loopholes. “Alright. I know Agent Romanov wanted to be alerted when folks were coming her way...but Agent Barton didn’t say anything like that, did he?”

“No, sir. And in fact, he just headed to the gym a few minutes ago. You should be able to catch up with him and...his company.”

“You’re a genius, JARVIS, you know that?” Steve’s already moving towards the elevator as he throws this out there.

“I was merely made in the image of my creator,” JARVIS answers modestly.

 

* * *

 

When Steve makes his way into the gym, Natasha and Clint are already hard at work together, doing some routine sparring exercises. So intent are they both in landing their blows and trying to best each other that neither notices Steve as he quietly settles into a far corner and sits very, very still.

For fifteen minutes, the two of them whale on each other, occasionally their limbs connecting with noises that even make Steve flinch. Even after seeing the two of them in active combat on numerous occasions, he still marvels at the strength and resilience of their bodies, the violent beauty with which their limbs move and dodge and practically sing as they move together. They’re both quick and agile, and they are clearly familiar with each other’s bodies and movements and fighting styles.

Eventually, they call it a draw and back away from each other, both of them breathing just a little bit more heavily than normal, the sheen of sweat only beginning to form on their foreheads. Steve knows that this sort of sparring is simply child’s play to them; he knows that the two of them had fought in what could have been a to-the-death battle, back during Loki’s brief reign of mischief. Judging by the easy grins the two of them are giving each other, they are both remembering that time, too, and are happy to never have to do that again.

The two of them walk over to the benches across  the room--further away from Steve--and settle down there to rest their limbs and drink some water. They may be further away, but Steve’s ears have no trouble picking up every word.

“You’re gonna have to deal with this eventually, Nat.”

Deal with what? Steve knows he should feel badly about eavesdropping on a private conversation, but somehow, he just cannot bring himself to care. Something is troubling Nat--his teammate, his soldier, his friend--and after finally establishing a bit of a stronger relationship with her, he’s unwilling to see her upset or bothered by anything. So he shoves his conscience away and pays close attention.

“There’s nothing to deal with.” Nat takes a swig of her water.

“Bullshit. You’re running. You’re a million miles away in your head, and I bet you’re just waiting for the first scrap of a mission Fury throws your way so you can put a continent between--”

“Shut the fuck up, Clint.” There’s a wickedly sharp edge in Nat’s voice.

“How long are you gonna deny what you feel? Jesus, what the fuck kind of world do we live in where I’m the one talking about emotions? What the hell is this?”

“It’s you reading too much into something that isn’t even real.”

What’s curious about this, now, is that the edge is gone from Natasha’s voice; it’s replaced by something weary, as though she’s an old soul who’s simply tired of carrying the burden of witnessing the world’s mistakes and sorrows. There’s something--something there, lurking, something that Natasha cannot, or perhaps will not, fight. They can hear it, even if they cannot see it, cannot identify it, cannot fight it.

Clint doesn't  like it any more than Steve does.  “Not real? Nat, don’t forget, I spend my entire life looking, watching, observing. I know what I’m looking at--”

“Let it go, Clint. Nothing’s going to happen, so just--just let it go, okay?” It’s hardly possible, but cool, unflappable Nat’s voice is actually going up in pitch until she’s practically yelling. And then she gets up abruptly. “Fuck you, Clint. You know who I am and how I am. It’s too late to start changing things now. I’m outta here.”

But before she can follow up with decisive action, Clint lands the killing blow. “Running like a scared little girl.”

The rage that flits over her face is a frightening thing to see, and Steve finds himself drawing back a little at the same time as he’s thanking God that it’s not directed at him. But he’s distracted by the blindingly-fast second in which she somehow makes it to her feet, her body poised and ready to go a few more rounds. Clint’s sigh is audible throughout the gym, it seems, as he dutifully hauls himself to his feet, too. It’s as though he knows what’s going to happen next. And perhaps he does. But it’s obvious that he doesn't relish the thought of a fat lip and a black eye--both of which, judging from the sounds of the blows Natasha begins to rain down upon him-- come in quick succession.

Steve’s beginning to wonder just how in the hell he can get out of this without them noticing him. Fortunately, they appear to be completely wrapped up in whatever sort of foreplay this is to them, so he’s able to slowly, slowly inch himself towards the nearest door. Judging by the brutality of their fight, Natasha is hurting, and Clint is, too. What on earth is going on with them?

And then Steve remembers what Nat had told him, that night at his apartment. _“I’ve become untouchable, keeping those kind of emotions at bay.”_

Those kind of emotions.

It occurs to him then, with all of the surprise of a ton of bricks. _Natasha and Clint._ That they care for each other is a given, an irrefutable commandment that helps structure their team’s existence, but given the loaded nature of the tense discussion Steve had just overheard, perhaps they more than just care for each other. And Natasha is fighting it, keeping _those kind of emotions at bay_. Refusing to allow them the luxury of a relationship, no matter how much she feels for him, no matter how much Clint and she might love each other.

_Good._

Wait, what?

The strangely-satisfied thought came out of seemingly nowhere, but it now appears to be lodged in Steve’s brain, and it’s about the most disconcerting thing he’s realized in a good long while. More than that, it’s a shameful thought, and he feels guilty immediately. Why on earth would he ever wish anyone on his team to not have love? Why wouldn't he want that for Clint and Natasha? Shouldn't everyone find the right partner? He should be doing what he can to help Natasha past this block she’s put in their way, not begrudging them this chance.

Feeling more troubled and less enlightened now than when he first came into the gym, Steve slips out quite suddenly, and it’s evidence of the violence of their fight that neither Natasha nor Clint realize they've had an audience. And because he gets the hell out of there, Steve is not privy to the very revealing tableaux that unfolds between them.

Each punch or kick that Clint lands goads a little more information out of Natasha; each strike or blow she scores is a ruthless kind of retribution for the knowledge he extracts. Nonetheless, it’s the most effective method of communication they know. In gasped and grunted fragments, Natasha grudgingly reveals her secrets.

“I hate it--” She gives him a sound boxing to the ears, and then dodges his return volley. He catches her on the elbow, and she gives up a little more:  “Feeling this...way”

“Feeling how, Nat?” To an outsider, Clint’s voice would have sounded nothing less than taunting. He manages to land a kick a few moments later.

“I can’t-can’t be here. Wanting--”

“Wanting what, Nat?” By some miracle, he manages to knock her on her ass, however briefly, and Clint’s no idiot. He presses his advantage. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know!”  This bursts out of Natasha in a wail that’s chilling in its terror. Clint takes pity on her.

“Wanting him to want you like you want him?”

It was the right thing--or the wrong thing--to have said. With an inarticulate snarl, Nat launches herself up and onto Clint and has him on the floor in an instant, and she’s not holding anything back--she punches him one, two, three times, and it’s only after she feels the blood on her hands that she backs off and away from him, horrified. She’s never drawn blood before, not with Clint. And yet here he is beneath her, with a busted lip and a black eye.

Clint coughs and groans as he sits up. “Made my point, didn't I?”

Shame and fear drive Natasha from the gym then. Clint may have spoken truth, but it doesn't mean she’s ready to hear it, any more than she is ready to confront the fear and rage that his incisive words provoked. She doesn't want to see the devastation that her fists have caused him, any more than she wants to feel the devastation his words have caused her.

 

* * *

 

After that afternoon, Natasha’s no longer the only person acting strangely. But it’s less of an issue, because within a couple of days, her prayers are answered. Fury contacts them, looking for volunteers for a relatively unimportant mission, and no one misses the alacrity with which Natasha throws herself into the task, as though it was a salvation. She leaves them behind in the Tower, even Clint, and they don’t see her again for a couple of weeks. In the interim, as Steve carries on with his days and keeps an eye on Clint--who admittedly, doesn’t actually seem to be that lovelorn--he finds himself wondering, often, what it is that drives Natasha away, and then keeps her away, from the team with whom she belongs.

From the leader with whom she belongs.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

When they finally reunite, it isn't within the welcoming wall of their Tower, but rather within the sterile, chilly walls of SHIELD’s Manhattan headquarters. Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill are waiting at the glass conference table when they begin to trickle in--first Steve, of course, who is as punctual as ever. Then Clint strolls in, accompanied by Bruce and Tony--inseparable as ever. There’s no Thor; he’s traveled back to Asgard on what Jane has sighingly begun to refer to as a “prolonged business trip,” and in his absence, the lack of his booming laughter and simple acceptance of all he saw makes them all feel a little smaller. A little more...petty.

Natasha isn't there, either, Steve notes as he sits down at the conference table. Not back from her mission yet, he supposes. Seemingly of their own volition, his eyes seek out Clint, looking hard to see if the archer notices, or is bothered by, her absence.

Before he can find the answer to this, Fury speaks up, and with some reluctance, Steve turns his attention towards the Director, who’s surveying the group before them, his one eye giving away nothing.

“Thank you for coming in,” he says finally, and while it’s not evident in his facial expression, there’s amusement in his voice. “You've had a pretty quiet time of it lately, and god knows you probably needed it. I wish I could say that I brought you in to save the world, but really, it doesn't happen as often as you think.”

Tony sighs. “So why are we here, One-Eyed Willie?”

If Fury is bothered by the insult, he doesn't show it. But he gets his revenge soon enough, regardless. “While it’s good for you all to have a little vacation, it’s not the best PR for us. People start to wonder where the Avengers are, after a while...and when a potential situation came onto our radar this morning, we thought it would be a golden opportunity to put you back out in the limelight for a little bit.”

It’s a testament to how well they have come together as a team that none of them, not one of them, says anything in response to this. At least for a moment or two. Not surprisingly, Tony is the one speaks first--Steve is beginning to suspect he’s allergic to silence--but no one is complaining. “Let me get this straight--you called us in for a PR exercise?”

“If that's how you want to look at it.” Fury motions to Hill, who begins to distribute dossiers. “It's a pretty low-level risk assessment. There's going to be an event at the Belarusian Embassy tomorrow evening, and they've been receiving some credible threats. They're requested support in addition to the usual State Department staff. Your assignments are in those dossiers, but here's the rundown--”

Like the show-off kid that he is at heart, Tony has already jumped ahead and begins plowing through the papers. “You’re making us go to a costume party?”

“You're not allowed to leave the rest of the class behind, tinman,” Fury snaps. “Cap, you're going to be hiding in plain sight. In uniform. You're quite the legend these days, so you might just be an effective deterrent. Stark, if you're in, you and Dr. Banner are going to be ground support—back-up, if you will. Agent Barton's going to be working the rooftops, keeping an aerial view, along with Hill. The night of the mission, Agent Romanov will be joining you, too.”

Steve comes to full attention. “Agent Romanov is back?”

“Will be by the time of this mission.”

Clint sighs noisily. “Her costume--let me guess. She’s going to go as the mistress to some high-ranking diplomat.”

“Isn’t she always the undercover hooker?” This comes from Tony. “I'm beginning to think that's her specialty.”

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes, but it’s Steve who actually reacts more strongly. He thumps his fist on the conference table, and the glass actually begins to crack. “Can it, Stark.” It’s been a while since he and Tony were on a last-name basis, and he’d almost feel bad about it if he weren't so bothered by Tony’s remark. “No one puts down the work that any of us do, and no one disrespects anyone on the team like that.”

Everyone is staring at him, but Clint comes to his rescue. “Stark, if you want to be the undercover hooker, you’re going to have to improve your technique a lot, first.”

No one ever doubts that Tony gives as good as he gets. “I do beg your pardon, Cupid. I’ve got plenty of satisfied customers who’d be very happy to provide references.” Tony gave the group a big wink. “On the other hand, you can't really comment with any accuracy  anyway, can you? You're just sour grapes since I didn't give you a ride on the iron pony.”

“I think my saddle would be too big,” Clint retorts without missing a beat.

“Anything else, Director?” If Steve thought there was anything worse than spending time contemplating Natasha’s default undercover persona, it’s this. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of Asgardian mead to get the images of Clint and Tony out of his head.

“Nothing else. Re-assemble here tomorrow at sixteen-hundred hours. Dismissed.”

* * *

 

Fury’s directions couldn't+ have been more explicit, but it’s not surprising to Steve that he’s the first one who shows up at the appointed time the next day. He’s also not surprised that he is the _only_ one who shows up at the appointed time. Fury and Hill are the first to show up--ten minutes late, not that Steve will point that out to them--and while Fury assumes his usual grumpy, guarded position, Hill and Steve make some casual conversation.  Before their brief affair, they had had a fairly amiable relationship, and after--well, they were both professionals, and soldiers, and knew the importance of what they did. They had neither of them been burdened with overwhelming emotions, thank goodness, which made the inevitable parting all the easier. Now their relationship is easier than many that they have with others in the organization, and Steve, for his part, appreciates it.

And then, Clint and Natasha are the next to stroll in. They hear the two agents before they stroll in, Clint’s voice a little louder than Natasha’s sultry, huskier tones, both of them debating the merits of various interrogation techniques. Clint says something quietly, something that makes Natasha laugh abruptly and then give him a distinctly ungentle punch in the arm.  Their conversation and demeanor, at least, seem easy and normal--even if their appearances are anything but.

Steve doesn't realize it, but Maria is watching and appreciating his reaction with a certain detached amusement. It would be comical--hell, it _is_ comical, at least to her--if it weren't so...well, typical of what she has come to think of as _Old Steve_. Old Steve is how he appears  when he finds himself confronted by something radically different than how it was in the 1940s; he sounds like an old man, but he tries very hard to overcome his dismay and aversion. New Steve, young Steve, is the Steve of now, the one who tries to adapt and accept most things that come his way. And then there’s Soldier Steve, who is a funny combination of the two, and funnily enough, where he seems the most comfortable.

Old Steve is up to the plate, and Maria watches as he actually takes a step backwards, as though he’s frightened by the people who have just stepped into the room, and wishes to put as much distance between them as possible. Interesting.

“Howdy, Cap,” Clint drawls. Natasha gives him an off-handed wave, but is preoccupied with adjusting some critical part of her her...suit? Costume? Outfit? “I see you're all suited up.”

“I see you are, too,” Steve manages to respond, trying desperately to look anywhere but at Natasha. It’s hard, though, especially when so _much_ of Natasha is available to look at. Her crimson dress is stunning, true, especially against the startling paleness of her skin. But oh sweet lord, so much skin. The halter neckline plunges deeply, and thoroughly displays what it’s intended to. The dress fits her body snugly until it hits her hips, and then it flows outward in a series of layered, floating ruffles.

Hill comes to Steve's rescue. “Romanov, you got blonder.”

_Blonder_. Yes, her mop of red curls has been tucked away in what can only be called the world's most believable wig. Natasha Romanov now sports sleekly blonde hair combed back into an elegant up-do.

“Definitely blonder,” Steve agrees, seizing upon this harmless observation. And then concentrates on her three-inch stiletto heels, which no doubt conceal actual stilettos. But he can’t carry on like this, and so he turns to Barton. “You and I are lucky. We get to hide in plain sight. But--” he can't avoid it any longer, he turns to Natasha and focuses on her face, “is your...um, outfit...going to be adequate? Do you have everything you need?” To his everlasting credit, he manages to keep his eyes trained to her face.

“Cap's protective of Tasha,” Clint observes, _sotto voce_. “It's sweet.”

In answer to Steve's question, Natasha swishes her way over to the closest chair, props one of her stilettoed feet onto it, and hikes up her voluminous skirts almost all the way up to her hip.

This time, Steve doesn't bother trying not to look. He takes in the wicked little knife and compact gun, both of which are secured to a rather delectable-looking garter and gleam darkly against her creamy skin. And oddly, he's able to handle this better than just about anything else about her. If the mission goes south, it won’t be because Agent Romanov isn't prepared.

“Matching set on the other leg,” she adds before bringing her foot back to the floor and allowing the skirts to resettle, modestly hiding her assets once more. “There are so many damned ruffles and panels in this get-up, there won't be any other noticeable bulges. And anyway,” she concludes, gesturing towards her plunging neckline, “they'll be concentrating on this.”

Steve manages what he hoped was a blasé nod. “We all set?”

“Hang on, Cap.” Clint kneels down by Natasha and carefully guides her foot back to the chair, and then slowly hitches up her skirts once more. He made a very slight adjustment to her garter. “There. No bulge now. Take it from an expert.”

_Interesting._ Steve has noticed Natasha’s more relaxed stance, and Clint’s familiar behavior. Perhaps the two of them have come to terms, come to some sort of agreeable arrangement? It would make sense. But he knows now of Natasha’s aversion to intimate relationships, and he hopes to god Clint understands that and treads accordingly. And now he’s a little surprised--where on earth has this protective feeling come from?

Oh. It must be to distract him from the rather dismaying jealousy that also seems to have sprung from nowhere. What on earth?

“If you're done tormenting Captain Icypants,” a new voice breaks in, “maybe we can get going?”

They all turn to the direction of the voice, and see Tony stride in, with Bruce in his wake. Tony gives Natasha an appreciative grin. “You clean up well for a call girl.”

“You clean up well for an asshole.” Natasha spares him one scathing look and takes in their tuxedos. “You guys seriously couldn't do any better than James Bond?”

“James Bond with a portable Iron Man suit close at hand if necessary.” Tony corrects. “But Dr. Banner here bought his suit off the rack. Wouldn't even let my tailor near him.”

“No sense in a designer suit if the Other Guy decides to crash the party.” The shrug Bruce gives is not quite casual, but it’s getting closer--a good indication he is coming more to terms with his other half.

“Unnecessary frugality! Your BFF is a billionaire.” Tony’s grin is meant for them all, and seems at once both rueful and honest. But he is clearly restless, shifting his weight from one foot to the other so much that he almost seems to be hopping. “Designer suits grow on trees at my place, you could have all of ‘em you wanted.”

“Please tell me the Other Guy is not Tony Stark's kept man,” Natasha says to no one in particular. “'Cause I might just have to haul his ass back off to India.”

Hill has had enough. “I'm going to haul all your asses to the brig if we don't get going. Captain, you and Agent Barton will be riding with me, since we're the official SHIELD detachment. Agent Romanov, there's a hired car waiting to take you to the Embassy. Stark, you and Banner are arriving in a private vehicle?”

“Yup. The Stark party-van. Site of many legendary soirees and enough debauchery to freeze Cap up all over again. But in the interests of a successful mission, I even dismantled the mini-bar.” Tony makes no attempt to cover up his pride at his noble sacrifice.

“Successful mission, maybe.” Clint throws Hill a dirty look. “But what about a successful after-party? We should at least get a party when this is done.”

“Party? That's a team-building exercise I can get behind.” Tony’s already pulling his Stark phone out of his jacket. “I'll call Pepper. She'll arrange everything. Party after the mission! Drinking! Dancing! Chorus girls for the Captain, even...!”

“No chorus girls! No parties! Just focus on the mission, Stark.” Steve pulls his cowl and helmet over and onto his head, and thanks his lucky stars that his suit isn't nearly as complicated as Natasha's. “Let's get this done.”

Hill is the last one out of the room, and so she has the best vantage point to observe them, almost all of Fury's Avengers, as they depart for their mission. Stark leads the group out of the room, dressed up in his tailored suit, all bluster and cock-of-the-walk and accustomed to his own self-importance. Barton and Romanov follow behind, in closer proximity to each other than any of their other teammates. The two of them long ago developed the unique trust of comrades-in-arms who had endured life and death together, and with that trust comes an equally unique synchronicity of rhythm, movement, and anticipation of each other.

And then, bringing up the rear, like a cross between a mother hen and a loyal hound dog, is Captain America. Tony Stark may appear to be leading the way, but it’s the Captain who is already covering his team, observing and assessing and strategizing. Or is he? Maria’s eyes narrow speculatively for a moment as she watches Steve watch Clint and Natasha, and what is this? She knows Steve better than most would guess, and so she recognizes the look on his face--something confused and uncertain, but also wanting something. And looking like it is just out of his reach.

* * *

 

Even with her stilettos giving her three badly-needed inches of extra height, Natasha finds herself at a disadvantage. As she stands in the courtyard of the Embassy, surrounded by costumed revelers—many of whom seemed to dwarf her; when had Eastern Europeans gotten so tall?--she realizes she is often straining and craning her neck to see farther than the people in her immediate environs.

“Nat, chill.” Hawk's voice comes in, clear and confident, through her tiny earpiece. “Hill and I have the aerial covered. Focus on the crowds closer to you.”

“Focus on the party!” Stark's voice joins in on their comm network. Natasha grits her teeth and tries to keep a tight rein on her patience. She’d done her damnedest to keep away from the team--away from Clint’s knowing eyes, and Steve’s obliviousness, and therefore away from her own miserable cravings. She’d gone so far as to beat the tar out of Clint and withdraw from Steve and take a fucking mission on the other side of the globe, and yet the second she comes  back--here she is again. For a moment, she begins to feel as though nothing will ever change, that her entire existence is going to revolve solely around SHIELD and the Avengers--and who are they but a team of fairly decent men and demi-gods, not a one of them with the same murky, morally-bankrupt past as hers? She should be grateful to merely be in their company, to be accepted by them, to fight by their side, to be given a chance to prove she’s her own person, not a drone still enslaved to a dead Communist regime. So why the hell should she ever think about craving something more comforting than this life that she has right here? Why the hell should she think she deserves it?

But at that moment, Tony’s frenetic chatter brings her attention back to current events.  “If we're saving the world, let's have some fun. If this turns out not to be a world-saving mission...let's still have some fun! Or at least make fun. Speaking of, Romanov, just what the hell is your date supposed to be masquerading as?”

Glued as she is to the ambassador's side, Natasha can't respond, can't even really react to the absurd chatter in her ears. But she had to agree—the ambassador's costume is rather unusual.

“I think he's a furry,” Tony declares after a pause. “Oh, yeah. Definitely a furry. Christ, and I thought the Captain was hiding in plain sight. Jesus, Romanoff, did you know your date was such a freak? I mean, I like a little kink—okay, maybe a lot of kink--but come on, a furry?”

“A furry what?” Even Steve, against his better judgment, finds himself getting pulled into Tony's banter. “Like, a furry teddy bear?”

“Not the best way to ease yourself into the twenty-first century, Steve. Do yourself a favor and don't ask.” This comes from Bruce, who is always the first to take pity on the Captain.

“I'm with Banner,” Clint agrees. “Much more satisfying kinks out there, anyway, right, ‘Tasha?”

“Fuck off,” she says aloud, irritably, and sees the ambassador look askance at her. He knows she’s here with SHIELD, but she hates breaking cover regardless, so she grimaces apologetically. But at the same time, she’s very, very grateful that she’s not close enough to Steve--or any of the others--to see their reactions to Clint’s playful comment.

The mission is well into the third hour, and the party appears to be well on its way to the end, when the team begins to resign themselves to the fact that the evening is a bust. As the agent-in-charge, Hill is the one to call it. “Security says this thing should be wrapping up within the hour. At ease.”

“Well,” Steve sighs as he politely ducks his head at two passing ladies who give him half-admiring, half-curious looks, “better safe than sorry.”

Maria huffs in annoyance. “I don't like wasting a night on bad intel."

In his roundabout way, Tony tries to make her feel better. “‘S alright, Hill-billy. Wasn't just bad intel, but a bad party too. On the bright side, Romanov might still get lucky with Teddy Ruxbin over there...I see the way she's been running her hands through his coat.” Tony and Bruce are making their way to a mezzanine balcony that offers a clear view of the courtyard. From where they stand, they can see Natasha and the ambassador on the other end of the courtyard. Directly two floors above them, on the roof, Clint sits, quiet, still watching everyone. Hill is on the roof directly over Bruce and Tony, Steve is closest to Natasha, and like Hill and Clint, has been trying to have all eyes everywhere.

“We off the clock, Hill?” Natasha asks, ignoring the ambassador’s querying looks.

“As much as we ever are. The bar should still be open; go and get yourself some of that godawful vodka. Just keep a sharp eye, folks.”

Natasha makes her way past the thinning crowds, passing by a few uniformed waiters pushing out dessert carts. _Little late for that_ , she thinks ruefully--apparently Belarusian soirees are not exactly off-the-chain events, because there aren't even many guests around the bar. She orders a seltzer water, and leans back against the bar to survey the remaining people who insist on closing down the party.

And then, oh, her lucky day, here’s Steve, walking towards her with purpose. He’s still in full costume gear, complete with cowl in place, so it’s hard to see exactly what sort of facial expression he’s wearing. Natasha swallows and sharply scolds herself. _Suck it up._   _There’s no need to carry on like a goddamned fool. It’s Steve._

Yes, it’s Steve, the same Steve who hasn't not been far from her thoughts at all lately, damn him. The same Steve who has lately been drifting into her mind at very--climactic--times when she is alone at night, trying to keep her fantasies populated with faceless, anonymous, obliging lads.The same Steve whose smiles and looks of approbation have become small but valued treasures.

“Sure you should be drinking?” he asks as he finally gets close enough to talk. And thank god, he’s gone and said something sanctimonious like that. It actually helps. And what helps even more is the bartender who obligingly passes her her seltzer water at that particular moment. “Non-alcoholic, Cap,” she says, and then passes the drink to him. “Do me a favor and hang on to that for me?” Once she’s certain he has her drink, Natasha sticks her fingers into her plunging cleavage and comes up with a few rolled-up bills. She may be deep in the throes of unrequited lust, or an absolutely pointless crush, but she’s not above reminding the annoyingly-immune Captain that she is, in fact, a female.  After she tips the bartender, she turns back to Steve and gives him her subtlest smile. “Thank you.” She takes the drink back, takes a sip, and then another, unsure of what to say. Really, what is there to say? She’s spent the last couple of weeks as far removed from the physical presence of Steve as she possibly can, banking on the old adage of out of sight, out of mind. She has spent her working hours fiercely focused on the mission; she has spent her few off-hours ruthlessly training and trying to avoid any moments of self-reflection, and finally, she has returned from the mission, hoping desperately that she has gotten it--whatever _it_ is--out of her system.

But now, as she stands in front of Steve, who’s looking down at her, his expression surprisingly unreadable, Natasha is beginning to realize that this is not as simple as she had thought it would be.

“Good mission?” Steve asks after a moment.

“Enh.” Natasha shrugs. “What mission is ever good?”

They turn away from the bar and face outwards towards the dwindling crowds of party-goers. After a moment, Steve turns his entire attention back on her, and even though most of his face is hidden behind his cowl, she can feel the intent look from his eyes. “I suppose a good mission is one that doesn't leave you feeling very conflicted once you've gotten the desired results.”

In the moment that lapses before Natasha responds, she’s thinking about the trail of devastation she has left over the world--and that was _after_ she had joined SHIELD. She thinks of the people--men and women both--she has seduced, attacked, lied to, stolen from; the trusts she has violated. She thinks of the collateral damage and civilian casualties left in her wake after Budapest, after Manhattan, hell, after Istanbul and Marrakech and Lima, too. She thinks about fires and orphans and _for the greater good_ , and then she looks into Steve’s accepting, clear gaze, and she wants to vomit. “Well, successful or not, it’s just the beginning,” she says to Steve now, not knowing from what source she’s pulling her words, but nonetheless going with it like she always does when it’s time to improvise her way through a job. “That was just the first phase of the mission. I’ll be going deep undercover for three months, at least--but more likely, six.”

The squawk of protest she hears in her ear is the same one Steve hears in his--they’ve both forgotten they are still live on their comm-links, and everyone has overheard Natasha’s news.  The squawk has come from Clint, who of course has heard nothing of this non-existent mission. Hill, no doubt also hearing this yarn, thankfully stays silent.

Steve looks taken aback. “That’s a long time.”

“Comes in the job description.” Already she’s thinking about how she can cajole Fury into going along with this crackpot scheme she's concoctin Perhaps there’s a way to infiltrate Pyongyang? _Maybe not the best thing, provoking the next Cold War over a crush._  Or maybe she can  go undercover as a missionary in Nigeria? She’s pretty sure she’s heard rumors of some alien smuggling going on down there. “I go where I’m needed. Duty calls. You should know that.”

“Of course I know that!” Steve looks offended that she’d imply otherwise. “It’s just…”

“Just what, Cap?”

“Just seems unreasonable. Isn't your first duty to the Avengers now? To the team?”

Natasha turns away from him, disappointed at his response, but more disappointed in her expectations of anything different. “It’s not that simple. It’s never that simple.” She begins to walk away, but Steve’s gloved hand settles on her arm, halting her departure.

“You want me to talk to Fury?” Steve asks, and his voice is so kind, she really does want to vomit. “I know those missions take a lot out of you. I've seen how you are when you come back. It’ll do you good to be around the team a bit. It’ll do the rest of us good, too.”

He’s right, goddamn him, and she wants to hate him for being so perceptive, seeing and understanding this...vulnerability in her. But the next words he speaks--

“It’ll definitely be good for you and Clint…”

In both of their comm-links, they both hear an exaggerated groan--this too comes from Clint--but they are distracted by Tony, speaking over all of them. “If you guys are done talking around each other over there, we’ve got a potential catastrophe unfolding--”

They both snap to attention. Steve’s eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Servers just brought out the dessert carts.”

Steve and Natasha exchange a look of confusion. “Are you diabetic or something, Stark?” Natasha asks after a moment. “You know, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

“Funny, but no. There’s something wrong with the desserts. They’re mostly Eastern European concoctions--tichie Moloko, vatrushka, syrniki.”

“And?” Steve is trying very hard to keep his patience.

“Since when is New York Style-cheesecake Eastern European?”

“Shit,” Natasha swore, and within seconds, has plunged back towards the ambassador, leaving Steve to try to suss things out.

“Where's that cart at?”

“Last I saw, the server who had it was closest to where Barton’s stationed--I’m headed over there now.”

“Stark, no! You’re not in your suit--”

The explosion knocks these thoughts out of his mouth as efficiently as it knocks him off of his feet.

  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let me just say this: Yes, I have seen CA: TWS. I promise that I will do my damndest to not provide any spoilers--hopefully, this should not be difficult, as I am setting this story as if CA: TWS, IM3, or the latest Thor didn't happen. Think of it as occurring a certain period of time after the Avengers film.

"All agents, report!”

Steve winces as Maria Hill’s voice, sharp and commanding, barks its way through his comm-link. As he pulls himself into a sitting position, coughing slightly from the dust that is even now settling around him, her voice comes through again. “I repeat, all agents, report!”

Strange, he has never noticed how piercing her voice can be. But somehow, it still seems quieter than the panicked screams and cries that even now fill the air. Steve’s mind focuses and he’s on his feet, shaking off his daze. Where’s Natasha?  “This is Rogers,” he rasps. “I’m alright.” Of course he is--this was barely a knock, to him, but what about his teammates?

“Agent Romanov, do you copy?”

“I copy. The Ambassador is secure.” Her voice is tight, in control as she appears next to Steve.  “SHIELD agents are removing him from the premises.” She had reached him mere seconds before the explosion, not acknowledging his protests as she had begun to hustle him away, but as soon as the explosion registered, she had thrown him to the ground, behind the scant safety of a tall row of hedges. But it had been enough. He was alive.

She now notices a tickling sensation on the side of her head, towards her hairline. Reaching up to scratch at it, she winced with sudden pain and groans slightly as she feels the jagged tear running down her face. Shrapnel, probably, and bleeding copiously--she sees the bright red smear of blood on her hands, and dazedly thinks that it puts the shade of red in her dress to shame.

“ _All other Avengers, report!”_

“Safe. Near the blast area now. It’s bad over here.” Tony’s voice is low, confident, as they know it gets in moments of crisis. _Tony._ If it hadn’t been for his warning... “I'm deploying the suit, too. We’ll be able to tell if anyone’s buried.” His breathing, raspy and ragged, is almost as loud as his voice in the comm link.

Steve doesn’t wait for Hill to ask. “What about Banner? And Barton?” Natasha can hear grunts that were coming through his commlink; it sounds like Steve is already trying to start clearing the rubble.

“Banner’s with me,” Tony says. “He lost connection in his commlink though. He’s fine.”

“Barton?” Now Hill and Steve are chorusing their roll call.

Silence on the commlink.

“Agent Barton, report!” Hill’s voice is frightening enough to make Satan stand to attention, but--

Silence.

Natasha presses her lips together, determined not to allow a single noise escape. She’s been at this too long to fool herself with false comforts and reassurances. But nonetheless, before she can consciously realize what she’s doing, she begins to move towards the portion of the building where Clint had been keeping guard up on the roof--just two stories over where she and the ambassador had been before the explosion.

Problem: that part of the building was no longer there.

Amidst all the noise--the screams of panicked and injured people, the wail of approaching sirens, and Hill and Steve’s incessant and sometimes conflicting orders and demands for information--it’s rather impressive that they all hear Natasha over the clamor. The sound that issues forth from her deceptively small frame is a cross between a wail and an angry howl, enraged and disbelieving and grief-stricken and utterly, horrifically bone-chilling. Tony, who by now is physically closest to her, sees her fling herself towards the pile of rubble where part of the building has collapsed.

And then, in response to Natasha’s cry, Banner lets out an instinctive, animalistic noise of his own. Tony had left him behind, counting him as safe, but apparently the chaos of the situation had grown stronger than his self-control. Even as Tony watches, his friend makes the transformation into the Hulk.

“Well, hell,” Tony mutters--but gets no farther, distracted as he is by the feel of his Iron Man suit as it encases his body. Perhaps there was a god--at least now Tony be able to serve as more of a buffer against the “other guy” and whoever else might be around to cause damage, intentional or otherwise. It’s as if all of his nightmares are coming true, all at once. Between the Hulk and a ballistic Black Widow, the casualty count could be about to go a lot higher.

But what was this?

Slowly, the Hulk begins to move towards the collapsed portion of the building. Amazingly, he does his best to carefully pick his way around the much smaller people who still fill the courtyard. Tony allows himself a split-second of pride and admiration--Bruce really does  underestimate himself--before instinct kicks in and he begins to move in the same direction. Rogers himself is trying to dig through the rubble, but Tony knows that what’s needed is both an engineer’s eye and the Hulk’s strength.

And Romanov--what the hell? She’s still flipping the fuck out. By this point, she too has brought herself to the rubble, and with her bare hands is scrabbling through the pile of debris and rubble. Already her hands are becoming torn and bloodied as she tries to burrow her way through broken wood and chunks of stonework and broken glass.

“Romanov,” Tony says, as kindly and firmly as he knows how, “step back. We can do this faster.” He puts his hand out, intending only to touch her shoulder, but she jerks back, her eyes wild.

“Stay away from me!”

Nearby, the Hulk growls--at what? Tony doesn’t like this situation; it’s more unstable than a fat North Korean megalomaniac, and appears to be getting worse. Not even Cap is of much use; he, too, is digging through the rubble as frantically and without finesse as Romanov.

“Jesus fuck, haven’t you fools ever heard of extrication protocol? You don’t leverage and crib the rubble just right, you’ll be having Barton pancakes for breakfast. He’s as good as dead if you don’t chill the fuck out!”

The words register with Cap, and he slowly backs away from the rubble.

Already Tony is using the body heat sensors in his suit to determine who--what lies beneath the rubble. But, “Get Romanov back, too. We don’t know how unstable this area is.”

It’s obvious that this is an order for Steve, and he seizes on it with equal parts gratitude for something that he can do, and trepidation--he’s never seen Natasha like this. None of them have. He moves closer to Natasha, who has not stopped in her frantic attempts to reach Clint, wherever he is in that mess. “Natasha,” he says, and he can barely hear hear his own voice above the chaotic din. “Natasha,” he says again, his voice louder. “Come back over here. Please.”

She doesn’t even acknowledge his words, only continues to dig. She has reached a particularly large hunk of rubble, and is starting to tug at it--and Steve glances at Tony, and both of them see the critical nature of her actions--that piece of rock comes free, the whole pile could become more unstable.

Without thinking, Steve abandons his previous approach. “Agent Romanov!” he barks, his voice every bit as sharp and commanding as Hill’s. A distant part of him seems to watch, detached, as he reaches his gloved hand out and intercepts Natasha’s grasp as she reaches for another piece of rubble. His hand closes around her wrist, and he pulls, hard. “Stand down. _Now._ ”

Well, at least she’s not ignoring him now. Natasha knows that someone is trying to stop her, trying to interfere with her efforts to save Clint, but it’s unclear whether or not she realizes it’s Steve. She’s struggling against his grip, blindly trying to pull away “Let go,” she snarls, rage and fear twisting her face into an unrecognizable mask.

In response, Steve tugs, hard, at her arm, and then manages to grip her other arm, too. Now that he’s got a solid grip and leverage, he succeeds in pulling her away from the wreckage. “Step away, Natasha. Now.”

The resistance flees from Natasha so suddenly that Steve is nearly taken off-guard, and they both stumble backwards. By some miracle in a night that seems to be lacking in them, they both manage to keep their footing; however, Steve doesn't release his hold on Natasha. Instead, he pulls her further back as they both watch Tony go to work, shouting directions to the Hulk and more than one brave soul who stepped forward from the crowd to help with immediate rescue operations.

There’s a strangled noise, and Steve looks down at Natasha for a moment before he realizes that the noise is coming from her. “Hey, Nat.” He turns her towards him. “If Clint’s underneath there, Tony’s gonna get to him in no time. He’s going to be fine.”

She turns her face upward to look at him, not bothering to hide the fear there. “How do you know that?” She’s not crying, but she’s not far from it.

“I believe it,” Steve says simply, and to his credit, he doesn't once question himself. Some things haven’t changed since he’s been and gone from the ice, and faith is one of them. Then he notices the trickle of blood creeping its way down her face. “Come on back, Nat. You’re injured.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Agent Romanov, that wasn’t a request. That was an order.”

They both turn to see Director Fury, standing a small distance away. His face is as inscrutable as ever, but there’s no mistaking his tone. “The Captain told you to stand down, Romanov. You listen.”

“Fuck off!” she snarls, taking everyone by surprise. But what’s even more surprising is what comes next: Natasha tears herself away from Steve and slowly advances, her pale face a frightening, grotesque mask of rage and blood. “This is _your_ fault. You and your goddammed PR exercise--”

“Natasha--” Steve reaches for her again, but she’s a slippery little eel and smoothly slips just beyond him. “Don’t do this.”

“Stay out of this, Cap. This is on you, Fury,” she spits, “you and your ideas about the fucking little playteam of Avengers and your stupid little fucking assignment--”

Even if she has a point, Steve’s not overly eager for her to make it here, in public, and he certainly doesn't want to see her hauled up on disciplinary charges, and it’s the desire to protect her from her own dwindling control that spurs Steve on.  “Romanov. Silent. Now.”

Both Fury and Natasha turn and stare at him, but before either of them can react, they’re all distracted by a shout from one of the impromptu rescue workers. “I see something!”

All three of them turn back towards the hive of activity.

“Shore up this block of masonry--” Stark starts to issue the order to the person nearest to him, but then gestures to the Hulk, who casually lifts the item in question. As he does, Stark began to back away from the rubble, hauling something with him.

Fury wastes no time in reaching over to place a restraining hand on Natasha’s arm, but it’s still not fast enough. She has already darted away, well beyond his reach. Almost immediately, however, she comes to a halt. “It’s not Clint,” she whispers.

Or at least, she thought she had whispered. But then why is Stark looking over at her like he’s heard her? He _has_  heard her, this much she can tell, judging by the strangely pitying expression on his face, and what the hell? Since when does Stark show pity for anyone?

“It’s not Clint,” she says again, this time definitely not in a whisper. She begins to move towards Stark, loathing him for that horrible pity, and hating him even more for not having pulled Clint out yet. “That’s not Clint. Keep digging. That’s not him.”

“Natasha,” Stark says, and his use of her first name is somehow even more jarring than his pity. “It’s Clint.”

_No_. Natasha shakes her head in fierce denial. That man that they’ve pulled out, that can’t be Clint. Clint wouldn’t have that horrible gash running across his forehead, or the leg bent at that disgustingly unnatural angle. Clint’s complexion is tanned and a little bit weathered, not grey and seemingly waxen, like this man’s. Clint would have his bow, he wouldn’t have lost it, not like the fool that they’ve had just pulled out, the fool that Rogers is now trying to triage, the fool that has a quiver of high-tech arrows but no bow, oh god--

That unearthly howl erupts from her again. Tony suppresses a shudder, and beside him, the Hulk roars in agreement. But whereas the Hulk soon enough falls silent, Natasha’s screams go  on and on.

At the moment, Steve’s view is rather limited; his attention is focused solely on Clint, on seeing if he is still breathing, on staunching the wounds that are even now still bleeding. He hears Natasha’s voice, and he witnesses her loosening grip on reality, and every part of him wants to go over and help her, but until the medics get there, he has going to do what he can to keep Clint anchored to this mortal coil. He’s not ready to lose another comrade; he’s not ready to see the emptiness and pain in Natasha’s eyes.

But then the actual medics are there, shouldering him out of the way and settling in with their calm presence and knowledge. Steve takes a small step back, glances back at Natasha--just in time to see three SHIELD agents restrain Natasha while a fourth one comes up behind her and slides a needle into her neck.

The sedative takes effect almost immediately--even Natasha’s formidable, Red Room-enhanced body cannot withstand the obscure and costly drugs that are even now sliding their way into her bloodstream and bearing her away from the current catastrophe and the horrible fact that--

Clint does not appear to be breathing.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Since coming off the ice, Steve has had plenty of occasion to spend time in SHIELD’s medical facilities--every time he gets so much as a scratch that bleeds, Fury and the doctors are all over him, anxiously looking for any signs of serious injury that could somehow take him out. Steve suspects that it’s simply an excuse for them to study him and his body and his serum-enhanced blood, but he usually cooperates with a good-natured smile, and they usually have him in and out pretty quickly.

But, he realizes later that night--actually, early in the wee hours of the next morning--this is the first time that he has spent time here in Medical not as a patient, but as a visitor. A visitor who is stuck in a cold, silent waiting room, ignored--along with the remainder of his team--by the doctors and officials and other medical personnel, who continue to pass through, scarcely giving him a second glance.  He is a visitor stuck in this strange twilight world of waiting, and not knowing, and not being able to affect the outcome. Steve also realizes that this is the first time that someone on his team has sustained significant injury--and as he realizes this, he vows never to let this happen again.

A hollow, vain vow, of course, but it was at least something to do to fill the dragging seconds, and minutes, and hours.

At least he isn’t alone--Steve finds himself, absurdly, comforted by the still-alert Tony and Bruce,  who sit in the seats across from him. He can’t even be bothered by Tony’s incessant, irreverent commentary; it, too, is a comforting thing. At the moment, he’s remarking on the uncanny ability of SHIELD agents to look as though nothing is ever amiss.

“It’s like, if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were to come barreling through here, these freaks would be, like, I don’t know, ‘oh, hey, do we have a stable for the horses?’” Tony remarks to no one in particular, which is exactly who is consciously listening to him. But it has never stopped him before, and it’s not going to start now. “Fuckin’ weirdos. It’s like, a Monty Python skit. ‘Oh! Was that a bomb? Oh, dear, it wrinkled my suit! I should fill out a report.'”

Bruce long ago became accustomed to Tony’s commentary, but he still feels obligated to answer. “Not everyone’s a drama queen, Tony. Although,” he added after a moment’s consideration, “I think Natasha may have given you a run for your money tonight.”

All three of them turn to look across the room, at the bench where Natasha is still out cold. The medics had dumped her there, without ceremony, after removing her--and the rest of the team--from the blast site and sending them back to headquarters. The entire time they’ve been waiting, Natasha hasn’t awakened or even stirred. Bruce and Tony and Steve are seated themselves a little further away from where she lay now, not wanting to be too close when Natasha awoke--but not wanting to be too far away, either.

“I’ve never seen her act like that,” Bruce says softly.

Steve speaks the words they’re all thinking. “None of us have.”

The fact is that they’ve always counted on Natasha to be the steady, cool, unflappable one. She usually keeps her emotions behind a nearly impenetrable steel wall, and the only feelings she ever reveals are the ones that she chooses to show, and there’s always an underlying strategy for it. It’s simply who Natasha is, who she was trained to be before she ever even realized what was happening to her. So for her to be controlled by her reactions and emotions is almost as frightening as the precariousness of Clint’s life at present.

The quiet, tense atmosphere is interrupted as Nick Fury stalks in.

Of course, Tony voices what all of them are thinking. “Do you ever walk normally? Like, forget the stalking and swaggering. Just mosey, already.”

“Fuck off, Stark,” Fury growls, before moving to stand next to Natasha. From his jacket pocket, he produces a syringe, and thrusts it into Natasha’s neck, close to where the original sedative had been administered. He stands back, then, waiting for her to come awake.

Remembering how she was when she went under, Steve and Tony and Bruce all tense.

The counter-sedative works its way through Natasha’s bloodstream quickly, and soon enough, she’s stirring awake...slowly at first, as she shakes off the effects of the drugs, but as cruel reality hits, she bolts upright with a startled cry.

Tony, protective as ever, hustles Bruce back, not wanting his friend near Natasha when she’s so volatile, and Fury has never been one for coddling. So it’s left to Steve, of course, to approach Natasha and try to speak with her and keep her calm. Slowly, carefully, he sits down in the seat beside Natasha. “How are you feeling?”

Natasha shakes her head and winces. “Shitty.” She’s trying to orient herself. “What the hell?” Glancing around, she’s able to recognize the medical facilities--she’s been here more than any of them except Fury--and so she’s quick to remember what has happened. “Where’s Clint?” She starts to rise, but with surprising speed, Steve reaches out and grasps her wrist, arresting her movements. She glares at him--Steve has never been the recipient of the Widow’s death-stare, so he appreciates now why Tony looks so apprehensive wheneverhe describes it--but he doesn’t release his grip on her. Instead, he gives her wrist a gentle tug, and after a moment, Natasha settles back into her seat. But she fixes Fury with an intense stare. “Is Clint dead?”

In reality, there is only a second or two that lapses before Fury answers, but to each of Clint’s teammates, the agonizing time seems to stretch on much longer as they begin to really contemplate the possibility that their team has taken a mortal blow.

“No.”

Of course, there is no rejoicing, no triumphant whoops of glee, because they’ve all seen what Clint had looked like, and the look on Fury’s face promises worrying news. But still, it’s hope, and Steve squeezes Natasha’s arm, trying to reassure her.

“Agent Barton should be coming out of surgery soon,” Fury says after a moment. “His left leg is shattered, and there were several fractured ribs, one of which punctured his left lung, which subsequently collapsed. That’s what the surgery is taking care of. There’s a concussion, too, but by some fucking miracle, it’s minor. I’m not a doctor, but it looks like the bastard should make it through.”

Natasha makes a noise that sounded vaguely like a choking chinchilla.

“He’s going to be under sedative for a good long while,” Fury points out. “And you all look like shit. It’s best if you go home, get some rest, and clean up. I’ll contact you as soon as Barton awakens. And I might add, it’s usually a doctor who tells people this, but there wasn’t a one of them who had the balls to.”

None of them move. And Fury knows better than to try any harder, and so he stalks off, muttering under his breath as he does.

The little surge of vitality that Fury had brought with him departs with him, too, and with his departure, they realize how drained they are. Natasha, in particular, looks dreadful.

“Natasha,” Steve says softly. “You heard Fury. It’s going to be okay. Clint’s going to be out of surgery soon. He’s going to be fine.”

Natasha stares ahead blankly. Steve’s words have not registered--in fact, Fury’s words hadn’t really registered, either. She’s still waiting for the axe to fall and for someone to come in and tell her that her one source of humanity, her one enduring tie to the world of normalcy, no longer exists, that Clint Barton, her savior, her albatross, her everything and nothing, is no more.

“Natasha.” Steve says it more sharply this time, and he moves his hand to her shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, he gives her a hard shake. “Natasha. Listen to me.”

Earlier in the night, when he had taken a tone of command, she had obeyed, and wonder of wonders, she does this time, too, and focuses her eyes on Steve.

“You hear me? Clint’s going to be okay. Fury said so.”

“Really?” Natasha’s voice is so small, he has to strain to hear her. And as if she weren’t enough of a wreck, with her bedraggled hair and torn-up hands and dress, it gets worse, for a few tears actually slide out of her eyes, leaving clean tracks on her otherwise filthy face.

“Yes. Really.” Steve gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He’s not used to this--after all, this is the first time they’ve endured this--but he sees that Natasha needs reassurance and direction, and he will do his best to give it.

A movement out of the corner of his eye pulls his attention away from Natasha, and he glances up to see Tony shedding his suit jacket and draping it over Natasha’s bare shoulders.

“We’re going to get some coffee,” Tony mouths to Steve, and he barely has time to marvel at Tony’s tact before he realizes that it’s less to do with tact and more to do with the fact that he alone is left with a crying Natasha. And then he curses both Tony and Bruce.

But Steve has never been one to shirk his duty, and so he focuses solely on Natasha. “Hey--”

“Don’t.” Natasha grits this out as though it’s painful for her to say, and she huddles under Tony’s jacket and hides her face away. “Don’t look at me. Not now. Please. Give me a minute.”

So he gives her a minute, expecting her to gather herself, pull herself together. What he doesn’t expect is the sound of the choking sobs getting louder, and like it or not, he’s not and has never been one to turn away from a fellow soldier in need. He’s not about to start. “Let it out if it helps, Nat.”

“Don’t call me that. Just--don’t.”

Steve nods, understanding; they’ve all called her that before, but they all know that its origin lies in Clint, who has called her that since he brought her into SHIELD and taught her to embrace a life of nicknames and individual identities and friendships. He doesn’t say anything else at this point, but simply squeezes Natasha’s shoulder again. And restrains the urge to smooth back her hair, and then what the hell? He gently pulls her hair back from her face, tucking a rogue curl back behind her ear as he does.

It seems to be this single action that pushes Natasha past the point of no return--now her tears are coming hard and fast. But she cries silently, which for some reason make it all the more heart-wrenching to watch.

And then, surprisingly, Natasha jerks away. “Don’t touch me--don’t even look at me, Steve. I--you just can’t now.”

“I don’t mind, Natasha,” Steve protests, his heart going out to her. “We’ve all been there--”

“I don’t care!” She actually shouts this. “I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t get the luxury of falling apart in front of my team, and my team doesn’t get the burden of watching!”

Steve is bewildered. “But--”

“Leave me alone!”

Steve is dimly aware of the fact that Bruce and Tony have re-entered the room, clutching mugs of coffee, and are staring with consternation at the both of them. But Natasha is aware of the audience, too. “I’m done with the group therapy,” she snarls, shoving past them all and stalking from the room.

“Jesus,” Tony complains. “Dads can’t leave for five minutes and you kids are already fighting.”

Without any clear idea of how to retort, Steve nonetheless opens his mouth to say something, but--

“Captain Rogers?”

All three of them turn to stare at a tiny woman who has just stepped into the room. Her white coat marks her out as a doctor immediately, and despite her diminutive stature, she has a presence that commands their attention. “I’m Agent Doctor Jadhav, the surgeon-in-charge tonight.”

  
Steve glances out the door, his mind already trailing Natasha, trying to anticipate where she might have been heading, but thinks the better of it. He knows where his priorities must lie. “Doctor? So you’re working on Clint?”

“Worked on Agent Barton, I think you mean. But yes.” She smiles, and it’s amazing that her face does not appear to register the many sleepless nights that she must endure. “We’re transferring him from surgery now. He’s still sedated, but I fully expect him to come around any time. Did one of you wish to keep him company?”

Once again, Steve thinks of Natasha, wants to go after her to make sure she’s okay, but the better part of him knows that she needs time alone. And both Tony and Bruce look exhausted… “I’ll stay with him,” he tells them, and to Dr. Jadhav, “Just tell me where to go.”

“Sit tight and I’ll send someone to bring you to Agent Barton’s room.”

After the doctor leaves, Bruce and Tony turn to Steve. It’s Bruce who speaks first. “You sure you want to stick around, Steve? You’re as worn-out as the rest of us. And god knows, Tony and I have put in plenty of late nights. This is nothing new to us.” Beside him, Tony nods in agreement, even though Steve knows that there is nothing that Tony wants more than to be far away from here, and safely ensconced in his workshop, where he can anticipate and control every variable that threatens the people he cares about.

“Comes with the territory,” Steve says simply. “I want to be here when Clint wakes up.” Like Natasha should have been, he wants to add, angry on Clint’s behalf, but he refrains from editorializing. Instead, “When you get back to the Tower, see if Natasha’s there. She’s pretty upset--take care of her, if you can.”

“Us and what army?” Tony mutters.

Shortly after that, Tony and Bruce depart, and it’s only another few minutes before Dr. Jadhav herself comes out to get Steve. “We’ve got Agent Barton settled into his new room, and he’s ready for you, Captain Rogers. Come with me.”

So he does, following a few paces behind. He could have easily kept up with her purposeful stride, but Steve knows that she is the queen of her domain, and she likes to keep in charge. He’s not about to go upsetting the power structures in place, not with Clint needing someone to be by his side when he awakens.

It’s strange, Steve reflects as he steps into Clint’s room and takes in the man, laying in the hospital bed. He saw Clint right after they had extracted him from the rubble, when he was bloody and broken and covered in layers of dust and debris, but he looks worse now, tucked into this formidable hospital bed, his body tiny against the machinery and rails and substantial mattress. His wounds are all patched up, his leg is in traction, there are tubes and wires sticking out of him every which way, but somehow, he seems more fragile and damaged than right after the explosion.

“Stay as long as you need to,” Dr. Jadhav says, “until he wakes up, or beyond. Just try not to get him excited. When he wakes up, hit the ‘call’ button so we can send in some nurses to take his vitals.”

She may have been the queen of her domain, but Dr. Jadhav certainly knows how to run a tight ship, with compassion and good sense. She pulls out a chair for Steve to fold his bulk into, gives him an encouraging smile, and leaves within a couple of minutes.

And now, Steve has nothing to do but wait, and keep vigil, and wonder about the tangled lives of the people he leads.

* * *

He has no idea about how much time passes. Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Within the sterile, windowless walls of SHIELD’s medical facilities, it’s impossible for Steve to know for certain. He’s a patient man, however, and doesn’t spend too much effort thinking about how long it takes for Clint to come around.

What matters is that Clint does come around.

His eyes open first, and for a moment, Steve’s not sure if he has maybe fallen asleep and is dreaming his hopes that Clint is awake. But no, he’s not dreaming, and he feels Clint’s usually-intense hazel-green eyes gazing at him. Right now, however, there’s a dazed expression in them, and Steve has to remind himself that the man is probably utterly stoned with painkillers.

“The fuck?” Clint mumbles.

Steve doesn’t bother to keep the grin from his face. “You come back from the brink of death and the first thing you do is blaspheme?”

“Someone has to...make up for your annoying goodness.” Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Jesus, where’re the pain meds?”

Remembering Dr. Jadhav’s words, Steve reaches for the call button to summon the nurses. “Someone will be in soon.”

“..she bett’ be in a sexy nurse costume.” Clint yawns. “What th’ hell happened?”

“Explosion at the Embassy,” Steve tells him, deciding to keep it short. “A massive wall kind of, well, fell on you.”

Clint frowns; he’s starting to remember. “That was right after you and Nat were fighting.”

_Of all the things to focus on_...Steve dismisses this thought as he dismisses Clint’s observation. “We weren’t fighting. We were discussing things.”

“Sure.” Clint closes his eyes for a moment. “Where is she, anyway?”

_Shit_. “Natasha? She…” Steve casts about for a moment, trying to think of something fairly honest to say that wouldn’t worry or upset Clint. “She’ll be here soon.” All of a sudden, he’s blindingly furious at her; what person abandons her partner like that?

“Be here soon, like hell.” Clint gave Steve a scornful look. “You are a shitty, shitty liar, you know that? Nat took off, didn’t she?”

“She shouldn’t have done that,” Steve blurts without thinking. “Who does that to someone they care about?”

The nurses are coming in now, elbowing Steve out of the way, fussing over Clint. Helplessly, Steve stands aside, wishing he was able to do more for Clint, who is handling everything with remarkable stoicism.

“Agent Barton needs rest,” one of the nurses tells Steve as she begins to prepare a syringe. “And the pain meds we’ll be giving him are pretty strong. So you’ll probably want to wrap things up soon.”

“I’ll find her, Clint,” Steve says, and tries for some levity. “I’ll bring her back by the scruff of her neck if I have to.”

But Clint is shaking his head. “No. Don’t...don’t be like that. Don’t be hard on her. She doesn’t...deal with this shit well. Go, find her... she needs someone right now. You can be what she needs.”

Steve shakes his head, not understanding. “No, you’re who she needs. And I’ll bring her back.”

“Dumbass…” Clint slurs off for a moment as the painkillers begin to take affect. “Blind dumbasses, both of you. Go to her.”

“Where the hell is she?” Steve is starting to get frustrated with the assassin and the spy on his team. Is it so impossible for them to state things simply and just confront things? “She took off, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a kinda big city.”

“That’s easy.” Clint closes his eyes for a moment, “405 East 82nd Street. Unit 3A. The spare key is on my dresser at the Tower.”

And before Steve can ask him anything else, Clint is unconscious once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all: I just want to say THANK YOU for all the comments and kudos! I should take the time to respond to each comment, but...that would just mean I am procrastinating with the writing.
> 
> Second of all: I have been working on this story on and off since last summer. I have several more chapters typed up, but I try to only update whenever I have finished a new chapter. That DID work...except that I have hit some writer's block. PORN IS HARD, PEOPLE!!! Even with the world's best Beta and writing partner. I think my main hangup is figuring out how to have Steve (believably) transition from mild-mannered Steve Rogers into a toppy dom-type. That, and writing graphic sexy sex has never been my strong point. 
> 
> But third of all: I do not intend to abandon this story. Updates may only occur every two weeks or so, depending on real life stuff. But never fear! Finishing this story is on my Goal List for the year, so it WILL GET DONE. Lots of cheerleading and constructive feedback are always welcome!

* * *

Of all of the difficulties Steve has encountered in this very long and exhausting night, of all the obstacles that he could have anticipated in his search for Natasha, he hasn’t counted on arguing with JARVIS as being one of them--and apparently, the single most insurmountable one.

When he had taken off from SHIELD Medical, he had assumed that finding Natasha would be a simple task of getting the keys from Clint’s rooms, and then heading out to the address Clint had given him. He hadn’t counted on being stuck in the corridor outside Clint’s quarters, trying to talk quietly so that his voice doesn’t echo throughout the cavernous Tower, trying to talk an AI into allowing him access to Clint’s quarters.

“Please, JARVIS?” he says again, hating the fact that a distinctly pleading note has come into his voice, and also hating the fact that an incorporeal life form has the upper hand in this exchange. A man’s got to have _some_ dignity, right? “I told you, Clint gave me permission to enter.”

“My apologies, Captain Rogers.” To his credit, JARVIS does sound sincere. “But as I told you, when Agent Barton occupied the Tower, he insisted on his privacy. I’ve been programmed only to admit those who pass the retinal scan or know the code.”

“His privacy--” Steve shakes his head, and for a moment, he wishes Clint weren’t in the hospital, because he very much wants to throttle him right now. “This is coming from the sneak that crawls around in the air vents and spies on us! To hell with his privacy.”

“Be that as it may, Captain, I cannot override my protocols without Master Stark’s express permission. I am sorry; I understand the importance of the situation.”

Steve’s exasperation has switched from Clint back to JARVIS, and now he’s wishing that JARVIS were corporeal, if only so Steve could have something solid to glare at. “Agent Romanov needs us, JARVIS, and Barton was too doped up to remember to give me the secret codeword. You can’t make an exception?”

“You know I cannot, Captain.”

“Yes, I know you cannot,” Steve grumbles, an unusual note of sarcasm creeping into his voice, and rubs at his face. Normally, he’s good to pull some long hours, but the stress and adrenaline and physical shock he’s gone through in the past several hours are taking its toll.

“Might I suggest that you get some rest, Captain?” JARVIS pauses for a moment before he adds the final insult. “You certainly look as though you need it.”

“Did Tony program you to be a little snot, or is this one of the personality traits you learned on your own?”

“I take full credit for this aspect of my intelligence, sir. Sleep well.”

But Steve doesn’t leave Clint’s floor; to do so would be tantamount to admitting defeat. Instead, he settles down on the floor, his back leaning against the door that remains tightly shut despite his best efforts of persuasion, and he sleeps.

* * *

“Steve.”

“Don’t be all nice. Hey Freezer-Pop, wake up--”

Steve jerks awake, and for a moment he is disoriented. Why the hell is he on the floor?

“Why the hell are you on the floor?” Tony is looking down at Steve with something akin to fond exasperation. “Did you forget where your dorm room was?”

With a groan, Steve rises to his feet. It’s broad daylight now; how many hours have passed since the nightmarish circumstances of the night before? “Your best friend JARVIS wouldn’t let me into Clint’s rooms. I need to get something from there.”

Tony nudges Steve aside so that he can punch a code into the keypad, and a moment later, the doors slide open. Steve throws Tony a grateful look and heads into Clint’s rooms, only half-listening as Tony chides JARVIS for his zealousness.

Clint’s rooms are fairly spartan--of course, all the furniture and linens are luxurious (anything less would have offended Tony’s sensibilities), but nonetheless, Clint’s personality comes through in little ways--a few discarded articles of clothing, surrounding a laundry basket; the little stack of mass market paperbacks--Jack Higgins and Tom Clancy, by the look of it--piled up by the unmade bed. It’s the unmade bed that perturbs Steve the most; it looks as though Clint has just awakened and stepped out, and not like he hasn’t been back since being so badly injured.

Shaking off this thought, Steve redirects his attention back to his task. There, on the dresser, just like Clint said it would be, is the key. Not wasting another second, Steve grabs it and charges back into the hallway, brushing past Bruce and Tony--

“Whoa there, Cap.” Tony grabs Steve’s arm. “Where you headed?”

“To find Natasha.”

“Yeah, and we’re headed back out to Medical, to check on Clint. But at least we had the courtesy to bathe beforehand.” Tony looks pointedly at Steve’s uniform, which he hasn’t changed out of since the Embassy party. “If you want to make Natasha feel better, maybe sporting those rags isn’t the best way to do it.”

“I’m not trying to make Natasha feel better,” Steve says. “I’m trying to get her back to Clint’s side.”

Nonetheless, it’s another half-hour before he finally leaves the Tower, and when he does, he’s squeaky clean and in civilian clothes.

* * *

_405 East 82nd Street._

For a few minutes after the taxi drives off, Steve stands on the curb, gazing up at the building that claims this address. It’s not a bad area--Upper East Side, closer to the River than the Park. A fair piece from both the Tower, and from SHIELD facilities, too, for that matter. As for the building itself--it’s an unremarkable but respectable-looking five-story brick building, clearly an apartment co-op.

Just then, he remembers something that Natasha had said a while back, that night when she had been bathed in bilgeschnipe bodily fluids, and he had brought her back to his place, and they had taken the first steps towards a real friendship, and not just a solid working relationship.

_“I have a place of my own, too, to decompress.”_

So this was her place. Steve glances down at the key that dangles loosely his hand, and for a moment he ponders whether this is the best idea. But no, Clint had told him to come. And Natasha had been badly upset, perilously close to losing her much-valued control. Natasha is one of the team, and he will make sure she was okay.

The building isn’t so hoity-toity that it has a doorman, and for that, Steve is grateful. He’s not sure that he can handle any more officious people (or non-people, as the case may) keeping him from doing his duty. So he’s able to walk in, unharassed, and make his way to the third floor.

Unit 3A. There is nothing that distinguishes it from its neighboring units; no welcome mat or anything personalized. Steve raises his fist to knock on the door, but then remembers the key in his other hand. Why on earth did he go through the hassle of getting the damned thing, if he doesn’t plan to use it?

So with quiet apprehension, he unlocks the door, pushes it in gently, steps inside.

If Clint’s quarters were spartan, this apartment is downright austere. Steve gazes around at the bright-white walls, the bare hardwood floors, the single white-upholstered couch. It feels more like a hospital than anything. He steps further in, takes in the tiny little kitchen that’s fairly bereft of any visible appliance or cooking utensil--it almost seems like this is a just-purchased apartment that hasn’t been claimed yet.

He looks to his left--there’s a doorway, and he can see that it leads into what can only be the bedroom. For lack of anywhere else to go, he heads into there--and sees the form of Natasha, sitting on the edge of the double bed.

She’s still dressed in her torn red dress, and that gown, along with her head of flame-red curls--her blonde wig long since discarded--makes her stand out against the white bedding like a flash of crimson blood, spurting forth from a snow-white, innocent palette.

Steve leans against the doorway. “Natasha?”

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even glance over at him. But she does speak. “You shouldn’t be here. I didn’t invite you.”

“I’m not a vampire.” All of a sudden, Steve’s anger simmers up again. “I don’t need your invite. Your broken boyfriend asked me to come and make sure you were okay.”

She doesn’t respond to this jibe. Only, “I’m fine.”

But Natasha is not fine, and Steve can see that. Natasha’s a wreck; she’s barely holding it together as she sits at the edge of the bed and trembles and fights back the tears. “Go away, Steve.” Nat hunches over. “Please.”

Steve can’t go away. He draws closer, at first hesitantly. He’s known Natasha for a while now, and only for a very little bit of that while has he seen her as anything other than perfectly together. He can’t leave her, not as her leader, not as her friend, not as...well, best not to think about that.

“Steve? Please.” Natasha’s voice cracks. “You can’t be here right now. I don’t want you here.”

With those words, Steve knows what he needs to say. “You might not want me here, but you need me here.” With that, he crosses into her room and sits down on the bed beside Natasha, close at hand, but careful not to touch her. “It’s okay. I’m here. I can help, Nat. And I can tell you, Clint’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that.” Now Natasha looks at him, really looks, and her green eyes aren’t filled with tears--they’re filled with fear, which is somehow more disconcerting.. “Steve, you can’t know that. Clint could have died. Any of us could have died.”

With a flash of understanding, Steve speaks. “Was this the first time Clint’s been in danger? Since Loki?”

Natasha’s shudder is the only answer he needs, but nonetheless, she gives verbal confirmation. “Since _before_ Loki. Even when he was under Loki’s...spell, I had hopes that we could...that I could save him. But when he was buried under the rubble, when Stark was trying to dig him out...I thought that was it. And that was the first time, the first time in goddamned how many years, that I wasn’t sure if Clint would make it.”

“Well, it also sounds like it’s the first time in goddamned how many years you finally let yourself feel something for him!” Here, Steve cannot contain his bewildered anger. “God help me, Natasha, is that how you go around treating all your men?”

“I couldn’t see him like that!” Natasha is starting to fight back now, her voice rising.   
  
“Why the hell not?” Steve gets up from where he was sitting and faces Natasha. “Put on your big-kid-Avengers uniform and do what has to be done. How the hell are you supposed to have a relationship with Clint if you don’t even try to be around him when he’s injured? When he needs you. When _we_ need you.”

“You don’t need me,” Natasha practically spat. “You need _The Black Widow_. You don’t need Natasha, who falls apart when one of her friends is hurt. You don’t need any of that bullshit.”

Steve stares at her, completely at a loss for words, his eyes burning angrily in his pale face. The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity to Natasha, who, inexplicably, is starting to shrink under his gaze.

“Go back to Clint, Steve.” Natasha sounds absolutely worn-out. “I can’t be there for any of you.”

“Definitely not.” Steve barely recognizes his own voice, harsh and sharp as it sounds. “The way you look now, no one would want you to be.” He doesn’t pause to think about his actions, but goes on instinct, and so he leans over and grips Natasha’s forearm. “Get up.”

Without waiting for her to obey, he hauls her bodily to her feet. She gives him a bewildered look, but it says all Steve needs to know about her current mental state that she does not protest his manhandling of her. “You’re going to listen, Nat,” he says, deliberately using Clint’s nickname for her, “and you’re going to do what I say. Go into the bathroom, shower. Clean up, and change. You look like shit.” He gestures at her torn dress. “Once you’ve done that, I’ll take you to see Clint.”

“I don’t want--”

“I don’t give a damn.” Steve gives her his best “Captain” look. “You do what I say, Natasha. Trust me.”

While trust is something he knows does not come easily to Natasha, following orders is, and thank God, she actually extricates herself from Steve’s grip and shuffles off in the direction of what he hopes is the bathroom. Once he hears the bathroom door close and the shower begin to run, that is when Steve allows himself to breathe a minute sigh of relief.

 

* * *

It isn’t until they are squashed into the back of a taxi, which is taking them back to SHIELD facilities, that Natasha speaks again.

“Clint’s not...it’s not what you seem to think it is between us.”

Steve glances at Natasha, and doesn’t bother to cover his confusion at this seeming nonsequitur. But Natasha is assiduously staring out the window, refusing--once again--to meet his gaze. “Beg your pardon?”

“Clint and me. You keep calling him my boyfriend. But he’s not. We haven’t been...together for a long time. Years.”

Now Steve is horribly confused, for so many reasons. “But…” But what?

“He and I...we’re too much alike in some ways, and not enough in others.” Natasha shrugs and then leans back and closes her eyes. “He brought me into SHIELD, you know? He saved my life. And for a long time, I felt an obligation  towards him. And then, of course, we were attracted to each other. But in a way, I’ve always seen a part of him as being what killed my belief in anything. He destroyed my faith in the Red Room--which needed to happen, but still. And it was through him that I learned what happened to my parents.”

“He was the messenger,” Steve says softly, and Natasha nods, understanding the reference.

“It was too...is too complicated with us. He’s a cross between a friend and a work partner and a savior and an old lover and...it just never worked between us. Not like that.”

“Too much…” Steve casts around for one of the words he has grown familiar with. “Baggage?”

“Exactly.” Natasha laughs lightly, shakes her head. “And that’s just the stuff between us. What about our individual quirks? I never really...opened up to him. Couldn’t let myself trust him.”

“You’re opening up here.” It’s a risky thing to point out, but since when has Steve not taken risks?

“It’s you, Steve,” Natasha retorts. “You’re all that’s good and pure about us. If I can’t open up to you…” she drifts off, clearly not  wanting to finish the sentence, but Steve thinks he understands, despite what continues to go unsaid. So he reaches out a hand and lightly touches her arm in acknowledgment, and as he does, a beam of late-morning sunshine hits her face, illuminating both the beautiful red of her hair and the deep lines of tiredness and sleeplessness that are beginning to groove their way into her face.

“Anyway,” Natasha sighs. “Clint keeps me grounded, if nothing else. And after last night…”

“You lost your grounding.” Steve understands more now; he gets how she was losing control, and terrified to do it in front of everyone else. “So instead of letting us see that, you took off…”

“And Fury’s gonna be _pissed._ ”

It’s true, of course; they both see this the moment they step into the hospital waiting room and see the imposing, black-clad form of the SHIELD Director pacing the floor.

“Where the hell have you two been?” he snarls as he turns and sees them. “I was beginning to think my Avengers team had dwindled down to the Terror Twins over there.” Without looking over at them, he gestures to where Tony and Bruce are sitting, doing their best to look invisible.

“Director, I apologize--” Steve starts to say, but when Fury raises a dismissive hand, he decides to keep his mouth shut.

“You’re fine, Captain,” Fury snaps. “It’s Little Miss Russian Drama Queen over here that I’m curious about. Romanov, just who the hell gave you fucking permission to go AWOL?”

Natasha answers truthfully, if not wisely. “I wasn’t thinking, sir. I was reacting.”

“Reacting?” Fury actually rolls his eye. “Are you kidding me? _Stark_ reacted. You lost your shit--that’s not a reaction, that’s a _nuclear_ reaction. A goddamned meltdown!”

Natasha does not respond in her own defense because, of course, Fury is correct. In an emotionally-demanding crisis, she had failed spectacularly to live up to her years of training, to the investment that SHIELD had made in her, to the expectations placed upon her. She knows why, of course--and Steve does, too, now, since she had told him--but it doesn’t help her at all, now. Because no matter why she lost it, the fact remains that she did, and although Fury doesn’t say it, she knows: she has disappointed him. And herself. And the team.

As Fury continues to berate her-- “There is protocol, Romanov, god help me, I’m bitching to you about _protocol_ , where the hell is Hill when I need her? We needed to debrief you. And you just took off, like you didn’t have to answer to anyone--” Steve stands stoically beside her, not quite at attention, but close enough. He doesn’t speak a word in her defense--but then, he doesn’t speak anything at all, really. He simply stands there by Natasha’s side, and that’s when she knows that Steve, at least, has forgiven her. His presence during her dressing-down is a steadying act of grace.

But then, suddenly, Fury ends his tirade. “Get out of here. Go see Barton.”

As quickly as Natasha had taken off the night before, she now moves towards Clint’s recovery room. Nonetheless, Fury’s voice follows her: “I’m not done with you, Romanov.”

* * *

 _This_. This is why Natasha had run the night before. She hadn’t wanted to see Clint strapped up to all sorts of machines and monitors. She hadn’t wanted to see him injured, mortal, anything less than his usual vital, alive, obnoxious self.

And yet here she is now, standing at the threshold of his room, taking in the sight of him looking broken, fragile, human--there is, apparently, no running from this. There’s no running from their own mortality and vulnerability.

“You look like someone took away your security blanket,” Clint says, his groggy voice a welcome sound against all of the medical noises. “And I’m pretty damned sure that the Red Room never let you have one of those.”

It was the right thing for him to say--with Clint, nothing about her life is sacred. He doesn’t treat her, or her past, with kid gloves. It’s just a part of her, to be accepted in the same way that he accepts any and all random facts about her.

“I think you might be my security blanket,” she retorts softly as she pulls up a chair and sits down beside him. “You’ve always been the constant.”

“Not always,” he responds ruefully, and in those two words there’s the entire history of that uncertain, terrible time in which he was under Loki’s spell.

“Always enough.” Natasha reaches out to touch his arm--but then, seeing the bruises and cuts that mottle his skin, she pulls back. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Are _you_ okay?"

“Of course,” she answers, “fine, now that I know you’re going to be fine. You had me scared for a while.”

Anyone else would have bought it--it is, quite honestly, the best performance she has given in a very long time. But it’s not enough to convince Clint. “Nat, don’t be stupid. Stark told me that you went a little nutty last night.”

Natasha tries to play it off. “It was a kind of intense night. I’m fine now.”

“No you’re not.” Clint pauses, and it could be because he’s trying to fight past the pain meds, or it might be that he’s just trying to get the courage up to say something. “You haven’t been fine in a long time, Natasha. You can’t keep running. Not from your friends, not from your feelings.”

“I don’t have feelings,” she practically rolls her eyes. “I had a feeling once. I didn’t like it. It made me very uncomfortable. Never again.”

“Bullshit, Nat. You’ve got plenty of feelings, you just don’t know what to do with them. You hide from them. You hide from us. And you’re hiding from him.”

“I don’t care if you are in traction, I could still break you,” Natasha snaps. “Knock it off. It’s not like that.”

“Oh, so it was just me imagining the other night that you told Cap you’d be deep undercover for six months?”

For a moment, Natasha has to struggle to remember just what the hell Clint is talking about, but then, it comes back to her--the discussion she and Steve had had, just before the explosion and everything going to hell. When she realized that this whatever she was feeling for Steve wasn’t going to go away so easily. “Well, ебать.”

Clint grins at the Russian profanity she has lapsed into. “It’s not so bad. You guys are good for each other. Stop fighting it.”

It’s impossible for her to say any of the things that she is thinking, things that would make no sense to anyone but herself--because at the end of the day, no one judges her more harshly than she does herself. With her past of violence and blood and lies and worthless sex, there’s not a single thing that can make her worthy of Steve, or the team, or of the regard in which they all seem to hold her--

 _“Don’t.”_ Clint's voice interrupts her melancholy train of thought.

“Don’t what?” she asks, trying to keep her voice cool and playful. “Don’t sit here and fuss over you? Fine by me.”

“Don’t sit there and brood. That’s your broody face, and it’s not making me feel any better.” Clint yawns. “Anyway, I’m tired. I want to go to sleep again.”

Remembering how close they came to losing him, Natasha nods, doesn't give him any grief. She wants to argue, but really, there’s no point. So she squeezes his hand and gives him a small smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

 _No, you won’t,_ Clint thinks as he watches her retreat from the room. 

* * *

 

Back in the waiting room, Steve and Stark and Bruce are all there, still, along with Fury. And Hill has joined them as well. They all look up and at Natasha as she rejoins them; she knows that they are studying her, keeping a sharp eye to see if she’s going to keep it together.

“Agent Romanov,” Fury nods to her. “We just need you to sign a few papers.”

Never have three words sounded more ominous. _A few papers_. “What sort of papers?” she asks, but a part of her already knows.

“One set of papers is the official debriefing of last night’s events. The investigation is ongoing; this is merely just a cohesive account from the team’s point of view that we need you to sign off on. The other set of papers…” Fury pauses, and she’s pretty damned sure he does this deliberately, to manipulate the growing tension. “It’s a consent form.”

“Consent form?”

“Consent isn’t really the word. Agent Romanov, I’m placing you on mandatory paid administrative leave, for a minimum of two weeks.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

_“Administrative leave? What kind of bullshit is that? Romanov isn’t even administration!”_

Steve holds the phone away from his ear--but not close enough to Natasha for her to hear. There’s only so many concentrated moments of Tony Stark ™ monologue that any one person can handle--but alas, their earnest but misguided landlord had called Steve practically the moment he had ushered Natasha out of SHIELD Medical.

Steve glances over at Natasha, who is walking beside him, pale, silent, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Steve is with her. But still, she’s sticking near him…

_“What the hell are we gonna do with her for two weeks? And you know that part of the terms are that she can’t see Barton? She’s gonna go hulkshit crazy...crazier.”_

Natasha wouldn’t even be able to see Barton? This is news to Steve. “Look, Tony,” he interrupts. “Why don’t I call you back later? Or see you at the Tower?” Without waiting for an answer, he disconnects the call and comes to a stop, right there on the busy sidewalk.

Beside him, Natasha stops, too.

_So she’s coherent, at least_. “Hey,” Steve says softly, “where do you want to go? We’re kind of headed...nowhere, right now. We can go where ever you want.” He knows he’s coddling her, but at this point, it’s all he’s got. It doesn’t work, though; she simply shrugs, either indifferent, or unable, or unwilling to communicate what she wants.

So Steve starts walking again, and so does Natasha.

When one takes the cab or the subway or their motorbike or one of the Stark or SHIELD vehicles to most of the places in the city, it’s easy to forget how _big_ the city actually is. Steve realizes this about half an hour later when he realizes that they are _still_ in Lower Manhattan. But Natasha is still trudging along beside him, without question or complaint.

It’s at about this point that he begins to pay more attention to his surroundings, and within a few moments, he’s got it figured out. Abruptly, he steers Natasha away from the sidewalk and through the doorway of the restaurant that has just now caught his eye. It’s some nouveau French bistro, and thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be crowded at all. Without waiting for a host to come seat them, Steve steers Natasha towards the closest empty table. “Sit,” he tells her, “And I’ll be right back.”

He sees a waiter coming towards them, and moves to intercept him. “My friend isn’t feeling well. Would you just bring us some water, and maybe a bowl of whatever soup you have?”

Maybe it’s the quiet urgency in Steve’s voice, or maybe it’s simply not wanting someone to get sick all over the floor, but it doesn’t matter--the waiter scurries away to comply with Steve’s modest request. Now Steve turns back to Natasha, but she’s still silent, unresponsive, and singularly unhappy.

When the soup comes, the tantalizing aroma of herbs and meat are enough to make Steve’s stomach growl, too, and it’s then that he realizes that he hasn’t eaten much today either. But this is about Natasha, so he shunts aside his own growing hunger and picks up a spoon. “Here,” he says, placing the spoon in Natasha’s hand and then closing her fingers around it, “Time to eat-- _jesus_ , Natasha, your hands are like ice!”

He doesn’t bother waiting for the response that he’s not sure will come anyway, and takes her hands and wraps them around the bowl of soup, and then covers her hands with his. They disappear underneath the meat of his bigger hands and fingers, and the chill in them quickly retreats, caught between the dual assault of the warm bowl and Steve’s vital, irrepressible life force.

_Finally_ , a reaction. Natasha glances up at him, and down at their hands, and a wrinkle of what? confusion? alarm? furrows between her eyes.

“Nat?” Steve probes gently.

She shakes her head, but doesn’t withdraw her hands from his.

They stay frozen like that for several minutes, neither of  them saying anything. But finally, Natasha sighs and withdraws her hands from his. Slowly, she picks up her spoon and dips into the soup, and after a moment’s deliberation, she sips at the broth.

Ten minutes later, the soup is completely gone.

“Feeling any better?” Steve asks, and immediately realizes it’s a dumbass question. She’s been barred, at least temporarily, from the two things that give her steadiness and direction--her work, and Clint. But even if she has no reason to feel better, she looks better--there’s color coming back into her cheeks, and her eyes are more focused now.

Steve catches the eye of the waiter, mouths “ _more_ ,” and makes a mental note to tip him well, for this time, the waiter brings back not just another bowl of soup, but a basket of warm, fragrant rolls as well. “Keep eating,” he tells her.

“I’ll get fat if I do too much of this.” It’s an absurd statement; Natasha is incapable of becoming fat, but it’s her first stab at a halfway normal conversation, and so Steve humors her.

“Nah, we’ll keep you busy in the gym. You’ll have two weeks to do nothing but spar and work out. You’ll be fit as a fiddle by the time you go back to SHIELD.”

“You’re pretty confident that they’ll let me back in then.” Judging by Natasha’s low voice and the way she doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes, she doesn’t share his confidence. “I fucked up, Steve. I can’t remember ever doing anything like that before.”

“I know. And maybe that’s part of why Fury’s exiled you for a couple of weeks. He’s trying to prove a point.”

Natasha gives him a puzzled look, but Steve simply motions for her to continue eating. Only then does he resume. “Obviously, you work under constant pressure. And if you don’t pause from time to time…the pressure might get to be too much. Like last night. So, some enforced time away from time to time can help you get some perspective and balance.”

“Steve,” Natasha says in a tone of voice that goes a long way towards assuring him that she _is_ , in fact, feeling better, “You’re a full-time superhero. I’m a professional seductress and assassin who’s been trained for this as far back as I can remember. A work/life balance wasn’t one of the perks listed in the contract.”

“Yeah, but--wait, you got a contract?”

“God, no. It was a turn of phrase.” Natasha pauses for a moment, pursing her lips over  a sour thought, before she continues. “No, I’m in for life. It was part of the amnesty deal.”

Steve hadn’t known that, but now that he does, the realization comes immediately that this is knowledge that does not sit well with him. What kind of life is this for her, anyway?

“So, I doubt it’s to get me to step back and rest.” Her frown is deep and thoughtful. “It’s to punish me. And I deserve it. I failed all of us.”

“ _Hey._ ” Steve’s voice is sharp and angry and he doesn’t care. “You didn’t fail anyone. You’re _human,_ Nat, and you had a normal, human reaction. God, we all thought Clint was dead. He would have been, if Stark hadn’t gotten him out when he did. I wasn’t any help either, remember? So stop kicking yourself. You don’t get to punish yourself over this.”

Biting her lip, Natasha glances down for a moment and keeps her eyes trained on the table. She can’t meet Steve’s intent gaze, not just now. She doesn’t want to see the understanding or the steady kindness in his eyes. “Why are you like this?” she asks the tablecloth.

But Steve knows that she is addressing him. “Like what?”

“So forgiving. So accepting.” She manages to glance up at him. “How are you even _real_? You’re just genuinely good.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I’m not. Not anymore than the next person. It’s just that...the time before the ice still seems like, not long ago at all. And back then, more of us were raised to openly value and practice goodness and morality. Now, I think most of us are still that good, it’s just buried under a pile of cynicism, like Clint and Tony, or fear, like Bruce, or self-preservation, like you. But the bottom line is that I’m no better or worse than the rest of the team.”

Natasha doesn’t debate this, but the way she clenches her mouth shut is a pretty strong indication that she’s not buying into Steve’s dismissal of his own, particularly unique goodness. Still, she knows there is nothing to be gained from arguing, and so she finishes eating her soup, going so far as to sop up the last of the broth with one of the rolls.

“You haven’t eaten since the party the other night, have you?” Steve guesses shrewdly. He doesn’t need her to answer. “What about sleep?”

The shifty way she slides her eyes away from him is answer enough. “Nat…”

“It’s not so bad,” she tries to assure him. “I’ve certainly gone a lot longer--”

“Knock it off,” Steve snaps, and wonder of wonders, she does. “You’re not on a mission. You’re not going to _gain_ anything from voluntary sleep deprivation. So you’re just punishing yourself, and Natasha, _there’s no need_.”

“Isn’t there?” Natasha counters. “I think there’s plenty of need for me to give myself a reality check. To remind myself of who I am and what I’ve done.”

This is a side of Natasha that he has never seen before: she is too defeated to project her usual aura of calm competence, and in its absence, it turns out that her truest self is a woman who has never truly come to terms with her world and her place within it. And he’s perceptive--and humble--enough to know that in revealing this side to him, she is not showing him trust. She’s simply too tired to care, and that is quite enough for Steve to decide that he has to do something, say something, to fight back against the burdens that Natasha has chosen not to relinquish.

“Who you _are_ ,” Steve says roughly, “is Natasha Romanov. Avenger. SHIELD agent. A human. My friend. What you’ve _done_? You’ve played the hand you’ve been dealt. A lot of what you’ve done in the past was out of your control, and it sounds like some of it still is. You didn’t have a choice in a lot of it. So punishing yourself--that’s not right. I can’t let you do that and not say something."

It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking; it’s impossible to tell if she even really hears his words. She remains still and silent.

Steve signals the long-suffering waiter once more. “Check.”

This is enough to pull Natasha back into the present moment. “Thanks, Steve. I really appreciate you looking after me today. It wasn’t necessary, but I get why you did it. But I should be okay now.”

“Fuck that noise,” Steve growls. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Natasha cringes ever-so-slightly; this is what she has been trying to avoid for a while now: Steve’s kind and protective nature, juxtaposed against his intoxicatingly commanding presence. _So close...so far._ “I’ll be okay, Steve, really. I’m better than I was.” But even as she says it, she knows it’s useless.

Not waiting for the waiter to bring back the check, Steve throws some cash down on the table--far more than necessary--and stands up. He holds a hand out to her.

And fuck it, Natasha is beyond exhausted, and so it’s easy--just for now--to simply relinquish the reins of control and allow Steve to take charge. She takes his hand and lets him hoist her to her feet. His grip around her hand is firm, warm, and he gives her a reassuring squeeze before letting go. But then his hand returns, this time right at the small of her back, barely touching. But it’s there, quiet and present and guiding, just like Steve himself.

It’s still a long way to Natasha’s little bolt-hole, and Steve is unwilling to let her walk that far. The shadows of exhaustion under her eyes are darkening, and her pace is uneven, her gait just a little less graceful than usual. She may be trained to endure far worse, but there’s simply no damned good reason to suffer now--especially on Steve’s watch. The memories of the years of hardship and deprivation, from the Depression and the war, have never left him, and he hates to see either of those evils now, when there’s no need. “I get your desire to punish yourself,” he tells her. “But there’s a right way and a wrong way. The wrong way is for us to hoof ourselves through Lower and Midtown Manhattan. The right way is to pay out the nose for a cab so we don’t have to.”

* * *

 Upon entering Natasha’s apartment the second time, Steve spends a few more moments examining and processing his surroundings. After the time he has spent with Natasha today, he’s starting to revise his impressions. What had first seemed like a cold, sterile space now seems like...something more. There’s something important in all this clean, white space.

Natasha seats herself on the white leather sofa and watches Steve for a moment. And then she tries to explain.  “Like I told you, after my undercover missions,  I come here to shed whatever persona I’d taken on, and...reset. Some of those missions get really intense, and so coming here is a kind of...cleansing ritual, I guess. I come here and get back in control and become me again. Then I can come home to the Tower.”

Steve has been following and understanding up until this point, but now-- “Wait, you don’t come back to the Tower after you get back from missions?”

_Dammit_. “No,” she reluctantly answers. “It doesn’t feel right...bringing the taint of what I do back to the team and our home. So I come here first and try to cleanse myself and get back into the right headspace, into my own identity.”

“You mean the fake identity that you project to the rest of your teammates?”

The puzzlement in her eyes is unfeigned. “Sorry?”

“With us, you’re always assured. Completely present, and aware of your own power and skills, and unashamed of any of it. But from what you’ve said today, that’s all an act, too.”  It sounds like a lonely and empty existence, but Steve doesn’t say so. Instead, unexpectedly, he lets the subject drop. “It’s naptime for you,” he says decisively. “And don’t argue, Nat. Just for now, don’t argue. Sleep.”

It’s halfway between permission and command, and wholly what she needs to hear. Without a further word, she stretches out on the couch and within moments, has slipped into sleep.

* * *

With Natasha’s deep, easy breathing the only sound to keep him company, and potentially several empty hours in front of him, Steve decides to explore the apartment more thoroughly. He doesn’t go into drawers or cupboards or closets, of course, but he does amble about at a deliberately leisurely pace, taking in a remarkable number of details that had at first escaped his notice.

Little by little, he takes in the pristine white of the barren walls, the gleam of the hardwood maple floors, the apple-pie order of everything. There’s nothing by way of personal effects or clutter of any kind--just a perfectly-ordered living room filled with whites and ivories and beiges.

The bedroom is much the same. The room itself is almost empty, save for the large bed, made up with crisp white linens, the nightstand with only the lamp on it (Steve does not doubt, however, that there are a few choice weapons within its drawers), and a dresser and mirror. Although he would never look, he guesses that the dresser holds little more than a few changes of clothes, folded with military precision, and perhaps an assortment of _more_ weapons.

Her little apartment serves its purpose, Steve knows, but he also knows, instinctively, that this is not home for Natasha. And he hates to think of her choosing to be away from her home, where she belongs; he hates to think of her withholding herself from her friends and teammates because of a perceived taint. The taint isn’t there, of course, but since she believes it is, it may as well be.

Wandering back into the living room, Steve takes up residence in the armchair facing the couch. Here he can watch over her, and wonder how best to help the enigmatic, broken woman before him.

* * *

Natasha often dreams, but this nap is one in which she is beautifully, gloriously free of the dreams, and so, when she finally wakes up, it isn’t in the throes of a dream which is a distant echo of her brutal life. It’s because someone is slowly shaking her awake. She buries her head deeper into the lumpy pillow, trying to stave off the inevitable ascent back into the bright awareness of the waking world and all of its unhappy truths.

“No. Come on, Nat, wake up.”

It’s Steve’ voice, and the knowledge of this is enough to haul her fully back into wakefulness, into the emotional riot that her life has somehow devolved into. “Ugh,” she grunts as she hauls herself upright, “what time is it? How long was I asleep?” The living room is dim; she’s been here enough to know that it’s the gloom of an autumn twilight.

“It’s almost six. You napped for three hours.” Steve squats down by the couch. “I was thinking of ordering in some food for us--that’s why I woke you up. What do you want to eat?”

Natasha shrugs, “I’m not hungry. And I ate earlier, remember?”

Steve sits back on his heels and studies her for a moment. “Not enough. C’mon, Nat, get some more food in you. You’ve been through a lot.”

Rebellion suddenly flares Natasha’s temper. “ _No shit,_ ” she snaps. “I watched my partner nearly die, got suspended from my job, and now I’ve got Captain fucking America dogging me, coming into my home and throwing his weight around like he’s got a god-given right. Who the hell are you to give me orders like that?”

“ _Someone_ has to!” Steve snaps back, and he’s aware that his temper is finally starting to fray, too. “That’s what we do, Nat, we take care of each other. That’s what we’re supposed to do when we’re not trying to save the world!”

“No.”

These calm words, contrasting so sharply with her previous sharp tone, are enough to catch Steve off-guard and silence him for a moment as Natasha continues to speak, her voice quiet and utterly certain. “You guys don’t get to take care of me, okay? You don’t get that responsibility--especially not after the other night. Sure, you say we’ve all got flaws, but me? I’m more flawed than the rest of you put together. That I’m on this team is a karmic miracle in and of itself. That’s more than I deserve, right there--anything else just doesn’t work, not with who I am. It’s not right. Save your care for someone else.” And it’s as she is saying these words that Natasha realizes she’s finally giving voice to the things she’s been telling herself since she first realized that she had developed a thing for Steve Rogers.

It doesn’t matter. It _can’t_ matter. And Steve is bowing his head, and Natasha has the fleeting and dubious satisfaction of believing that finally she’s gotten him to accept the cold, hard truth. But perhaps not, because almost immediately, he lifts his head up and looks steadily at her, and his eyes are burning into her like they always do when he’s utterly focused on one thing. “I know now I can’t say anything to you, Natasha. You won’t believe what I say.”

He’s still squatting by the couch, his face almost level with her pained gaze. She averts her eyes, but Steve reaches out and gently touches her chin, turning her face back towards him and forcing her to meet his eyes. “I can speak the truth, and tell you that we know you to be fierce, and amazing, and as good and brave as you are smart and talented, but I can’t--I can’t--” Steve flounders for a moment, vainly struggling to think of the right words to reach her. But really, what can he say in the face of Natasha’s dogmatic rejection of herself?

There’s nothing he can say.

But goddammit, he’s Steve Rogers. He’s Captain America, and he doesn’t accept defeat. He doesn’t stop until he finds a solution. And sometimes solutions aren’t found through words, but actions.

So Steve takes decisive action. And before he can think through the particular merits and drawbacks of this particular action, he leans forward and up a little bit, and doesn’t stop moving until his face is mere centimeters from Natasha. Once he’s there--close enough to see the tiny, tiny lines around her eyes, close enough to see the absolute confusion that’s starting to skitter across her features--he only hesitates for a moment before he claims her mouth in a very soft kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Be prepared for deliberately rather vanilla-flavored sex in this chapter. Trust in me, though, I have reasons for all that I do.

How the hell can a kiss be so lingering, yet so fleeting, all at once? Yet, somehow, it is, because even as Steve considers moving in closer, he’s already becoming hesitant, and so simply hovers there, enjoying the sensation of their lips touching, even as he’s guiltily wondering whether or not this is something Natasha welcomes. And as this question lodges into his brain, he pulls away.

But Natasha doesn’t.

She doesn’t lean in towards him, either. So Steve studies her carefully, now more than ever determined to get a correct read on her. He sees in her normally inscrutable face an assortment of emotions fighting for dominance --confusion, mainly, and surprise, and perhaps just a hint of fear? But there’s also a glint of something entirely new. Hope?

He kisses her again. This time, the kiss is not nearly as chaste, or as short-lived. This time, when Steve kisses her, he keeps his lips pressing and teasing against hers until he feels them parting in invitation. This is the permission he has been waiting for, and so he takes full advantage of it, throwing caution to the winds as he surges forward, his mouth branding hers as thoroughly as his fingertips now brand her body with invisible burns of desire as he lightly traces them over her face, her neck, her hands.

Natasha shivers, torn between the dual sensations of Steve’s calloused fingertips skating along her skin and him running his tongue around her mouth, licking and teasing as his lips try to seduce her into opening up wider, both literally and metaphorically. There’s _nothing_ chaste about this kiss now, nor about the way she’s beginning to breathe just a little more heavily, her body betraying her want.

Still, Natasha is still clinging to one last attempt to hang on to her self-imposed misery. She breaks off the kiss suddenly, and spends the next few seconds trying to gather her brain into some sort of coherent organ than hasn’t just been short-circuited by the most beautiful man she has ever met trying to redeem her through both his body and his mind. “What the hell, Steve?” she gasps. “What are you doing?”

“Only what I’ve been thinking about for a while now,” he answers readily, and he doesn’t give her a chance to respond, but simply rises to his feet and, with neither permission nor warning, scoops Natasha up off the couch.

_That’s it._ She’s _done_. Primal instinct at least temporarily overrules good sense, and so Natasha wraps her legs around Steve’s waist and locks her arms around the back of his head, and that’s the final straw. Steve growls, actually _growls_ , and quickly backs away from the couch, his strong arms easily hoisting and supporting her as he pulls her in for another kiss--this one just plain dirty and demanding--at the same time as he begins to try to navigate their way toward the bedroom.

Perhaps it was always leading to this. Perhaps, since that night with the bilgeschnipe, this has been the inevitable conclusion, or perhaps, the inevitable _start_. Start to what, neither of them know, nor even give a damn. The realities are still there--Clint’s injuries, Natasha’s fear of trust, and acceptance, Steve’s inability to reach her--but it is as if there is, at least briefly, an iron curtain separating them from these issues. Right now, there’s only Steve and Natasha and their mutual need and this safe place--not in Natasha’s apartment, but in their embrace.

How he manages to navigate them to the bedroom without breaking away from that kiss, Steve will never guess--but to be fair, whenever he later looks back on those initial minutes, really, he’ll never spend too much time wondering about that. Rather, he’ll be remembering all of the surprising, astounding details he discovers about Natasha, just in those few initial moments. He never would have guessed that her supple, muscular body, so beautifully flexible in battle and on the sparring mat, would turn so soft and yielding, its curves seeming to obligingly fit wherever he touched her. He would never have imagined that she wouldn’t object when, in a particularly heated moment, he tangles one of his hands in her red curls, locking her head _just so_ as he deepens his kiss even more, tonguing deep into her, seeking out anything she might try to hide. He never would have guessed the soft breaths, almost moans, that come out of her mouth when he breaks away for a moment, or the way she tilts her head back and offers that creamy, smooth expanse of her neck to him.

Steve doesn’t need to be urged; he brings his lips right to the softest spot of her neck, right at the juncture of her collarbone, and kisses gently before suckling a little. The moan that comes out of Natasha’s mouth is the only encouragement he needs to keep going, catching her skin between his teeth and nipping, just a little, before running his tongue soothingly over the flesh.

They’ve made it to Natasha’s bedroom, and Steve’s grateful--he could hold her like this, supporting her weight as she keeps her legs wrapped around his waist, for hours, but he doesn’t want to. He’s got plenty of other things that he wants to do, and it makes sense to do them now, when she’s at her most unguarded--and so her most honest.

So Steve gets them to the bed and lowers her down upon it, and if either of them are hoping that the implications of this is should serve as a wake-up call, they are both disappointed. If anything, it spurs them forward. Steve gently presses Natasha’s shoulder down and has her lay back on the bed as he leans over her and begins to unbutton the already-rumpled blouse. As he undoes each button, he keeps his eyes locked on her face, and this is for two reasons--he’s vigilant for any change of heart or mind, of course, but more than that, he wants Natasha to know exactly how present and attentive he is, how absorbed he is in her. He will not let her deny herself--or himself--that knowledge.

The blouse is gone soon enough, and Natasha obligingly sits up to give him better access to the clasps of her bra. She doesn’t reveal a second’s surprise when Steve deftly undoes the clasps, and she doesn’t say anything as she slowly peels away her bra and allows her breasts to fall free, their pearlescent flesh gleaming in the twilight gloom. She watches Steve for a moment, her eyes burning darkly as she waits for him to take in a sight that she knows few men can resist. She can tailor her actions and demeanor to suit the expectations of her partner; she’s done it for most of her life, and only on few occasions has she ever refrained, and simply allow herself to be...herself, without any acts or affectations of what she thought was expected of her. It takes almost more effort for her to do this; to relax her guard. But this is one of those times; to do otherwise would be almost a betrayal. So she doesn’t affect a pose or a stance, doesn’t try to wonder if he would prefer her to be hesitant or  demure, or bold or sex-kitteny.

She allows Steve to gently push her back down to the comforter, allows him to run a surprisingly soft hand through her hair, down her neck, to her jaw, which he cradles for a  moment before leaning in for another kiss, a lingering, lazy kiss that seems to go on for several minutes.

One part of Natasha’s brain vaguely wonders just how, when Steve learned to kiss like this...but she doesn’t want to spend too much time pondering this. Not when Steve is spending so much time and attention to this never-ending kiss, and good god, it’s incredible, but she wants to get this show on the road while she’s still present in this moment, aware and focused and seeing this in her grasp. Before Steve comes to his senses and realizes what a supremely bad idea this is, she wants to grasp this...whatever this is. A lustful coupling, a consummation driven in equal parts by proximity and curiosity? Or something else?

She doesn’t like Something Else. In her experience, Something Else leads to Nothing Good--in other words, nice things that she long ago realized she couldn’t have.

_Whatever_. Something Else this is not, but Something Hot it is. Nat wriggles just a little bit suggestively, and she can tell by Steve’s sharp gasp and muffled groan--as well as the bulge that’s now pressing against her leg, that this calculated move of hers has produced the desired results.

They shed the remainder of their clothes in predictably speedy time, but there’s a slight difference in their approach after this point. Whereas Steve seems inclined to spend precious moments admiring the sight of her, taking in her pale, beautifully-molded form, Natasha is not about to waste any time at all mooning over the sculpture that is Steve’s body. Instead, she’s all hands, all touch, all over him, guiding him so that he is now underneath her, and she’s trailing her fingers over that smooth, unmarred skin, starting from his rigid jawline to his beautiful soldier’s chest on down to his dick, which is exactly as well-enhanced as so many SHIELD agents--male and female alike--have speculated. And now, every inch of it is as now at attention. For her.

She grasps his cock, closing her fist around the shaft and slowly working her deceptively strong hand up and down, giving a few experimental tugs and some well-applied pressure until she’s isolated just what it takes to elicit the gasps from Steve.

“Jesus, Nat,” Steve groans. “Keep that up and I won’t last long.” It’s true, too--recently he’s spent so much time mulling over the thought of her and her remarkable body, her generous lips, her clear, sharp gaze, her husky voice, her aura of mystery, that now that he’s so close to making love to her, the anticipation has become almost too much.

This doesn’t stop her, though--if anything, his words goad her on to the exact opposite response. With her beautiful face arranged into an expression almost frightening in its intensity, she gently pushes him back until he’s flat on the bed. But right away he props himself up onto his elbows to get a better view of her kneeling over him, her knees straddling his hips as she lowers herself so slowly, inch by inch, onto his cock. It seems to take forever before she has impaled herself completely upon him, before he is completely sheathed within her.

Their eyes lock, and stay that way, although Nat never loses that look of intense concentration.

She’s aware of his hands settling gently, so gently onto her hips , coaxing her thrusts as she begins to ride him in earnest.  Once they establish a smooth rhythm, however, he begins to concentrate more on her body, lightly caressing her nipples, and then bringing finding her sensitive clit. It only takes a few varying touches and strokes before he learns how to extract quiet gasps of pleasure from her.

It’s almost dismaying, how little time it takes for them both to climax. Steve does so first, groaning hoarsely and convulsively grasping her hip so hard he knows that bruises will be visible on her skin within the hour. But it’s right after that when Nat comes, as well, her body stiffening momentarily, her mouth open in a small “o” of carnal satisfaction.

Yet almost immediately, she is drawing away, pulling back and up and away from Steve’s body, laying down beside him on the bed, but with almost insulting obviousness, not touching him. But even with all of the endorphins and other mood-altering chemicals now rampaging through his system, Steve is, at this moment, hyper aware of even the tiniest details about everything, all around. It’s not the first time he has noticed this--it’s almost as if his body’s biology knows, somehow, his increased vulnerability in these moments after sex, and compensates by making him acutely aware and sensitive. It’s how he can feel and hear, almost too strongly and loudly, Natasha’s elevated heartbeat. It’s how he can smell a slight sour tang of fear emanating off of her, just below the sweeter smell of sex and arousal and sated bodies. But more than any physical sensation, more than any sight or sound or taste, Steve’s enhanced body senses something in Natasha that goes beyond anything physical. He senses her unease and knows instinctively that, as physically satisfying as this brief interlude has been, it has left Natasha profoundly unsettled and perhaps even unhappy.

He reaches out and over to her, intending to place on a hand on her--her arm, her cheek, whatever is closest and most receptive. “Nat--”

Natasha manages to glide away from his hand and out of the bed with a beautifully smooth grace, the planes and curves and definition of her body now scarcely visible in the last of the quickly-fading daylight. “Tony and Bruce…”

_Not what I expected her first words to be,_ Steve has a moment to admit to himself, before she continues. “They might know something more about Clint. We should probably get back to the Tower."

“Guess so.” Steve knows he should be exasperated, or at the least, baffled by her abrupt withdrawal, but the sad fact is that he’s not. Nor is he surprised. As he rises from the bed, he catches Natasha giving him an inscrutable look. She parts her lips as though she is about to say something, but then changes her mind and turns away, bent on the task of retrieving her various discarded bits of clothing. She’s also intent on another task: ignoring what has just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. By all means, tell me so! Also, if you wish for me to explore a certain kink in this story, feel free to let me know. I could always use porn inspiration.
> 
> Also, sorry, but right now I can only manage one update a week. I'm 33 years old with a full-time career and an attention-hungry partner, so there's a lot of stuff to juggle. BUT I do hope to have this completed by the end of the month!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Here's another chapter for your viewing pleasure. Sorry I cannot update more often--but right now this is the best I can manage. I've got three more completed chapters, and am working on a fourth, but I don't want to catch up with myself! Keep reading and I will do my best to keep writing!

* * *

They take a cab back to the Tower, and it’s every bit as awkward as Steve expects it to be: Natasha is remote, preoccupied, silent; Steve is respectfully giving her the space she is so obviously demanding. He doesn't have a clue as to what this confusing, enigmatic woman is thinking, but he _does_ know enough not to press for answers she isn't inclined to offer.

He _has_ to try, though, at least once, and so he does--not in the cab, but once they are at the Tower, riding the private elevator up to the residential floors. The smooth, silent ride is one that should only take a minute, but Steve’s sharp enough to know that it’s going to be an awkwardly long minute if they don’t say something, and a painfully brief minute if they do. _Fuck_. After the harrowing few days they’ve had--hell, even if they hadn't gone through the last few days, they deserved honesty. They deserve the truth.

They deserve to try.

“So--”

“Steve.” Natasha turns to him and tilts her head upwards to meet his eyes. Her face-utterly impassive, revealing nothing, not the passion of earlier, or the vulnerability earlier than that--is enough to stop him cold. And yet…her eyes. There is a distant, muted sorrow there. “Thank you for earlier, Steve. But don’t worry. You’re off the hook.”

It’s now, as he is struggling to come up with a rebuttal to this statement, that the elevator doors glide open. Steve _hates_ it when he’s right like this--the elevator ride had been too short, had cut them off at this crucial moment. _Off the hook…?_ But he doesn’t have the chance to respond, for without another glance at him, Natasha is out of the elevator and walking briskly through the kitchen to the well-stocked bar area, ignoring Bruce and Tony, both of whom are standing nearby, waiting for them.

“Yo, Cap,” Tony says after an obvious and loaded silence. Bruce doesn’t say anything, just glances from Natasha to Steve and back to Natasha again. “Fury wondered where you disappeared to.”

“I was busy taking care of Natasha,” Steve answers shortly, without thinking. In the corner of his eye, he can see Natasha go still, her spine stiffening a little. _Fuck_ \--has he said something that somehow offends her? It’s the truth, though, and he’s not going to hide it. “How’s Clint?”

Bruce trains his attention back on Steve, but he chooses his words carefully, knowing that Natasha is listening to every word. “Asleep, when we left. They've got him on a lot of pain meds. And he’s pissed at Fury for keeping Natasha from him.”

They all hear Natasha mutter something under her breath, and judging by the guttural and ill-defined nature of the word, Steve has no doubt that it’s a beautifully explicit Russian curse. She turns around to face them, and in one hand she has a Waterford crystal glass, and in her other hand, a bottle of Russo-Baltique vodka. “It’s been a long day, gentlemen. I’m going to bed. Good night.” She studiously avoids Steve’s eyes as she passes him, and doesn’t linger with either of the others. She’s a woman on a mission, and she’s determined to complete the mission alone.

Except--she hasn't accounted for Tony, who reaches out and stays her exit. “Romanov, settle down and hang with the dorky kids for a while before you go pursue an active career in alcohol poisoning. Or at least, let me help you rise to the top of your profession.”

Steve watches as Tony gently extracts the bottle and the glass from Natasha’s grasp and guides her over to the kitchen. He gets her settled at the long table before he goes to the over-sized refrigerator and fills a bucket full of ice. “And  you've been an American for how long now--what the hell are you doing drinking vodka without ice?” Tony glances over at Steve. “Are you joining us?”

“I can’t get--”

“I know, I know, you can’t get drunk on mere mortal liquor.” Tony rolls his eyes. “You know I built an entire fucking cellar for that Asgardian ale, right?”

“Of course you did.” It’s a well-known, but little-acknowledged fact that Tony’s hospitality is exceeded only by his generosity. “But…no. Not interested. Not tonight.”

“Not in the mood?” Tony teases.

Steve doesn’t wince or flinch. “Guess you don't turn me on like you used to, Stark.” He steals a glance at Natasha, sees that she is determinedly looking away from him. “I’m gonna go get some shut-eye. But--” the temptation to take care of her is strong, even now. He doesn't bother to lower his voice. “Get some food in her. And make her get some rest.”

He doesn’t stick around to hear how any of them respond. By now, he’s ready to retreat to his own quarters, to enjoy the peaceful sanctuary that exists there. It’s been a long few days, an even he is drained, physically and mentally, and that strange interlude with Natasha isn't helping any. Even his super soldier’s body and mind and spirit are ready for a period of uninterrupted rest.

A wave of exhaustion--one that he hasn’t even realized he has been holding at bay--hits him the moment he sets foot on his floor. Without bothering to shed his clothes, he simply makes his way to the bedroom, collapses onto the bed, and promptly falls asleep.

* * *

 

_“Things will seem better in the morning.”_

Steve’s mother has been dead for decades, and yet, these words that she would tell him--whether he was fretting about a mercurial or vindictive nun at school, or struggling to draw a breath on a particularly wheezy night, or worried at the sparse meals at suppertime--have stayed with him through the years. Her soothing voice and the gentle words gave him much comfort then, and he sometimes wonders if they didn’t serve as some sort of protective cocoon throughout the decades when he was on the ice. And now that he’s in the modern word, he still hears her say that. And he still gets comfort from it.

And even better--every now and then, these words turn out to be true.

When Steve awakens the next morning, he feels absurdly better--physically refreshed, yes, but more than that, stimulated. Focused. He cannot remember his dreams, but he remembers fragments of impressions, fleeting thoughts, and somehow, they have coalesced into some potential answers.

For a few moments, he lingers in bed, looking around at the bedroom, flooded with the early morning light. JARVIS knows to raise the shades every morning, knows to make sure he sleeps no later than 5--7 on mornings like this, after a stressful mission--and he feels comforted by the steady predictability of Tony’s creation. And also, comforted by his omniscience.

“JARVIS?”

“Good morning, Captain Rogers.”

“Did Natasha get to sleep last night?”

“Indeed. Doctor Banner poured her into bed at 12:53 this morning. She has been awake for more than an hour, however, and she’s currently in the gym.”

This doesn’t surprise Steve in the least. Of course she might be in the throes of a terrific hangover, but all the more reason to hit the gym. “How’s Tony?”

“Master Stark is well and still asleep, as is Doctor Banner.”

Everyone is all snug, it seems. But there is one other person to inquire about. “Any word on Clint?”

“Master Stark infiltrated SHIELD’s medical bay operating system at approximately three this morning, and we now can constantly monitor Agent Barton’s condition.” Perhaps sensing that he shouldn't withhold too much information from Steve, JARVIS continues. “He had a night of fairly steady sleep, and his pain has abated somewhat. He’s due to take nourishment in fifteen minutes. As of yet, no signs of infection.”

 _Good._ Steve wants nothing more than for Clint to be healthy and back with his team again, but a little portion of him is selfishly glad to be in possession of this information. “Have you informed Natasha of this?”

“No, sir. She had no desire for conversation.”

A little smile threatens to tug at Steve’s lips. This good news is a reason-- _no, excuse_ \-- to approach Natasha, and the perfect gift to bring to her. With a burst of energy, Steve rises from his bed to shower and then head down to the gym.

* * *

As he enters the gym, he is greeted by the telltale sound of a punching bag being brutalized--in other words, being put to the use for which God intended it. _No need to guess what kind of mood she’s in,_ Steve notes with a smile that is equal parts grim and resigned. Other than the sound of fists striking the beleaguered punching bag, the only sound in the spacious gym is the occasional quiet grunt which escapes from the intense woman whom Steve is now seeking out. It’s almost ominously quiet--unlike Tony and Clint, Natasha prefers to work out without the sound of blaring music--classic rock or heavy metal, it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t want it adulterating her mental zone--for which Steve is now rather grateful.

What he has to say, he would rather not yell.

Slowly, with great caution, he draws closer, not wanting to interrupt Natasha while she’s in her focused zone of exercise, but also not wanting to miss out on the beautiful sight of her whaling on the punching bag. Steve appreciates all types of women, with all kinds of bodies and all kinds of beauty, but he will admit a certain partiality to females who don’t embody the concept of a wilting flower. And that is certainly one way to describe Natasha. She’s relatively small of frame and stature, but he knows better than most the strength and power that are housed within her body. As he watches her now--compact yet curvy, muscled yet graceful--it occurs to him that Natasha’s body is a remarkable kind of poetry, combining biology and genes and training into a collection of visual verses written into every detail of her physique.

“You could have just had JARVIS connect you to the video feed. It would have saved you a trip.”

 _Oooops._ Steve hasn’t been exactly subtle in his study of her-- _wait, what? “_ Video feed?”

To her credit, she doesn’t roll her eyes at him. “Didn’t you pay any attention to Tony’s technology orientation when you moved in?”

“I tried my damndest not to.”

Natasha doesn’t bother responding to this; instead, she turns back to the punching bag and continues as though there has been no interruption. But Steve moves to the other side and catches the bag as it starts to swing into him.

"Clint's doing well, JARVIS tells me," Steve offers. "Want the details?"

"I'll get them later." She says this dismissively, and so there goes Steve's first and best chance at talking casually. So, screw the casual.

“Can we talk?”

“Nothing to talk about, Steve,” Natasha says automatically, her voice registering neither interest nor annoyance. Seeing that she’s not going to get any more quality time in with the bag today, she steps away and begins to unwind her hand bindings. “It was a thing. It was nice. I appreciate it. But if you want to pick it apart and analyze it, talk to your girlfriend Tony. Or better yet, a psychologist--” She turns and starts to walk towards the elevator, but doesn’t make it more than  a couple of steps before Steve reaches out and catches hold of her arm. He feels her bicep flex as she instinctively pulls away, but he just tightens his grip and draws into her space.

“Natasha.”

She cranes her neck to look up at him. He’s staring down at her, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes burning into her. He’s trying to say something, struggling to come up with the right words, something that will halt her retreat. But then, he makes a decision and dips down to her, and there’s no other way to think of it, even to himself--he assaults her with a kiss that takes them both by surprise with its fierceness. There’s nothing tender about this kiss, or even romantic. Yet it’s passionate, charged with an electric need on both the giving and receiving end. They both feel that need as Steve’s tongue parts her lips and begins to drink her in. Inch by inch, he tries to learn every part of her lips, her mouth, her tongue, and inch by inch, they share the scorching heat that they both feel building--

And then Natasha jerks away. “Jesus, Steve. Let it go.”

Her words are harsh, but her tone of voice, not as much. She manages to pull away from Steve’s grip and step back a few feet, and for a fleeting moment, he sees something in her eyes he has never seen before.

Confusion. Fear.

He reaches out to her again, but this time, she rebuffs him, knocking his hand and arm away from her with all the strength she has. It takes him by surprise, but not as much as the punch that follows. She knocks him square in the jaw, and even with his accelerated strength and healing, it sure as hell doesn’t feel good.

 _“Stay away from me,_ ” she snarls, but he knows what she really means. _Stay out of my head. Stay out of my heart._ To drive her point home, she surges back into Steve’s space, moving in with blinding speed and attacking with a series of truly vicious strikes and kicks. Steve can see this is not her usual fighting style--these are actions inspired by emotions she rarely permits herself to discern, and her technique is not as graceful, economic, and detached as it is in her day-to-day work. This is the fight of someone struggling against something much greater than any one person. This is Natasha’s fight against herself, and Steve is barely more than an innocent bystander.

He manages to block most of her blows; a few of them hit their mark. Steve doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge the passing pain; he’s focused solely on pushing past Natasha’s fear-induced attack to reach what he hopes-- _believes_ \--lays beyond the chaos driving her now.

When a fight is fueled on emotions as instinctive and conflicted as Natasha’s ares, it’s inevitable that the fighter will begin to grow weary. Natasha is no exception--it takes a while for her assault to slacken, but Steve is ready for it the second he senses it. It’s then that he makes his one and only offensive move: he shoots his leg out, low, giving a hard, sweeping kick that knocks her legs out from underneath her and sends her falling to the gym mat. Before she can spring back to her feet, Steve grabs the advantage and traps her on the mat, straddling her torso and pinning her arms down. “Uncle?”

She huffs out a breath. “Fuck you.”

Instantly, Steve is on his feet, and offering her a hand. “Good enough.”

The abrupt halt to their fight seems, strangely enough, to have cleared Natasha’s head. She accepts his hand up, and when she’s back on her feet, she doesn’t walk away. “What do you want, Steve?”

“You,” he answers simply. “On whatever terms you’ll have me.”

She smirks, and there’s so much cynicism in it that it kind of twists Steve’s heart  a little. “ _Any_ terms?”

“Well…” Steve pauses. “I have some limits. Do you?”

The entire interaction started on a strange and awkward footing, and it just keeps getting stranger. Natasha studies him for a moment. “Limits…?”

“What do _you_ want, Nat? And what _don’t_ you want?”

There is an internal struggle going on within her, Steve can tell. More than once, she almost speaks. And because he is Steve--he helps her. “You’re hesitating, Nat. Can I ask something?”

Jerkily, she assents with a nod--at the same time as she folds her arms over her chest and focuses on some point in the middle distance.

“I remember...That night at my place? You told me have a hard time letting go. That you try to stay in control, to protect your life. That it’s hard to trust.”

Natasha doesn’t answer, but merely flicks her eyes up at him for a moment before looking resolutely down at the floor. Her expression is more guarded than ever. That night, the easy, confidential manner they struck up, has never seemed further away.

“It’s not easy for you, when you've got to slip in and out of so many roles. It’s got to be hard to know what’s real and what’s not. It’s got to be hard to know when you’re safe, and when you can relax and know you’re secure.” Steve’s voice has turned very quiet, as though talking to a frightened person. “You always have to keep the control, to keep yourself alive, don’t you, Natasha?”

“Until I lose control entirely,” Natasha retorts bitterly. “Like the other day, when Clint was hurt. And just now.”

Steve tilts his head thoughtfully. “What if you were to make it a habit of giving up control in a particular area? Do you think it would help you keep control in other ways?”

The look she gives him is sharp, assessing, as though she’s trying to judge whether or not he’s serious. She should know better--of course Steve is in deadly earnest. That is evident enough from his intense gaze, which he won’t tear away from her.

“You want to control me.” Natasha finally states this, and she notices with almost surprised detachment that her voice is completely neutral, giving away none of the riot of thoughts going through her head right now. “You want to--what? Take away my control? _Keep_ me? Dominate me?”

To this, Steve does not respond verbally. Instead, he reaches out and gently catches her wrist in his hand. He lifts to his lips and kisses it, slowly and softly, gently nipping near the pulse point. He hears her brief, sharp intake of breath as she experiences this sudden, sensual titillation, and then, seemingly as fast as one of Hawkeye’s arrows, he catches her other wrist. They are both encased in his one hand. Nat looks down at them for a moment, and then back up at Steve, who is slowly reaching out to lightly stroke her face.

Natasha doesn’t struggle in his grasp, nor does she recoil from his touch.

“I want to take the control you’re _willing_ to give up to  me,” he corrects her earlier question. “And I think it’s what you want, too. Tell me I’m wrong.”

She could do it. She could step away from this insanity. She could resume the life she has been living for years, a life of work and cautious friendships and fleeting flings and always, always feeling like that was the best she was going to get--and even then, more than she deserved. But with Steve’s bright, honest blue eyes seeing past her carefully-woven veil of _noli  me tangere_ , she suspects that it’s already gone too far for that.

“You’re not wrong.” This she _does_ say quietly, as though she is afraid of the words. “But--why?”

“Why?”

“Why me?” She shakes her head. “I’m not being coy or fishing for compliments. I know how I look and what I can do and how I can behave. But that’s the thing--you know that, too. You especially know the bad. So why me? Why would you be willing to--”

“Shut up.”

The shock of hearing Steve say this is enough to actually get her to shut up, but what’s even more shocking is the way in which he practically growls this. The intensity is back, this time even stronger. “You don’t get to do this, Nat. Not after everything you've experienced, all you've done. For a little bit, just let us be Nat and Steve and not spend time thinking about the reasons why we shouldn't want this--want each other.”

And to prove his point, he kisses her again, his lips giving a tender, silent assurance that this was exactly what he wanted--the feel of her soft lips accepting his, allowing him to enjoy her sweet tongue as it darts and teases and makes a few suggestive, tiny twists. At this, he groans and pulls away. “Jesus wept, Nat. You’re killing me here.” And then he adds, “Now’s not the time.”

 _So what now?_ Natasha wants to ask. What, now that she has all but admitted how vulnerable she is, on so many levels? It doesn’t matter whether or not she goes any further than what had happened the previous night--whether Steve realizes it or not, she’s already given him control, not just over her body, but over her emotions as well. “When is the time?”

“Later.”

Can Steve sense the sudden confusion and apprehension? “What’s later?”

Steve turns back to her, and the look on his face is one she scarcely recognizes. It’s one of lust, and anticipation, and apprehension, and glee, all rolled into one. “If you really want to know, come to my Brooklyn home tonight and see.”


	12. Chapter 12

Years of being the ultimate spy have honed Natasha’s skills to a very, very fine point. She knows her craft. She knows how to move through life effectively and efficiently. She knows how to gather intelligence. And it’s always been a cardinal rule for her-- _never_ turn down the opportunity to acquire more information, be it of a personal or professional nature.

It’s that rule that keeps coming back to mind throughout the day, starting from the moment she leaves the gym. This rule is present in all of her thoughts, as she goes through all of the actions of her day--her yoga moves with Bruce, her pathetic attempt at lunch, her useless attempts to hack into SHIELD files...and finally, her shower in the late afternoon. As she stands in the capacious stall and feels the water sluice through her hair and down her body, she remembers the night that she had stood in Steve’s shower, getting the bilgeschnipe juice out of her hair. That was the night that her view of Steve changed--all because she learned more about him. And it’s when her own interest in Steve really presented itself, too, if she’s honest with herself.

_Never turn down the opportunity to acquire more information_ \--but no, this is Steve. This is her friend, her team leader. She doesn’t want to gain an advantage over him--of course she tries to be aware of her teammates’ weaknesses, but it’s as much to protect them if necessary, not exploit them. But she really doesn’t want to use what ever she learns tonight--if she learns anything, _if_ she goes to him, as a way to have an advantage. Goodness and morality do not come to her easily, but this is a definite. So she won’t lie to herself and tell herself that it’s a way to gather information on Steve. She won’t give herself that excuse.

But then, why does she _need_ an excuse? Or even a reason beyond the need that they both recognize in each other? There’s a physical attraction, it seems, there’s a certain amount of trust, an apparent ability, or at least potential, to fulfill a certain need in each other. They are both consenting adults. Steve, especially, knows who and what she is, and does not appear to be running away. He accepts this; why shouldn’t she? Why should she have to give any excuse or reason? Why shouldn’t it be a simple thing?

Of course, he is both her leader and her colleague. It could completely complicate their working dynamic--but then, it hadn’t, not really, when she and Clint had their brief affair. And Steve and Maria still seemed to work just fine together. And anyway, she’s suspended--

There comes a time in every one of her jobs when Natasha stops thinking and simply falls back on instinct. And it’s now, in this _non_ -job, in this rather personal decision, that the instinct kicks in once more, and saves her from any more pointless analyses. She’s almost relieved as she finishes her shower, chooses an outfit, and begins the process of preparing for what should hopefully be a pretty interesting evening.

* * *

It’s almost two hours later when she arrives at Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. The sun is just starting to set, and because it’s mid-September, there’s a tiny little chill in the air--not helped at all by the fact that Natasha left the Tower without any sort of coat.

That’s why she’s shivering, of course. That, and no other reason. She’s shivering even now, standing in the hallway outside of Steve’s home, entertaining last-minute misgivings-- but she’s not shivering hard enough to keep herself from raising her hand to knock on the door--

But before she can, it swings open, and Steve is standing there on the other side of the threshold. It appears, for all intents and purposes, as though he has been waiting for her--expecting her. _Really?_ Is she such an easy mark?

She pushes this cynical thought to the back of her head and replaces it with a solid, stern reminder. _No._ _This is Steve._ She knows Steve had once warned her about putting him up on a pedestal, but really, that’s not what this is about. Steve has always behaved with goodness and transparency; there’s no reason why that would change now. No reason why Natasha should bring her jaded worldview into this, especially while Steve is greeting her with an open, uncomplicated smile, full of warmth and welcome to the point that it makes her wonder, has she misread his offer and implications entirely? Given what he has put out on offer, shouldn’t he be grave, or at least serious?

“Come in,” he offers, holding the door wider. “I was hoping you would come.”

Really? Who does that, lays themselves out and vulnerable like that? As a mark, Steve appears to be easy. _Too_ easy. How has he not been targeted before-- _dammit._ She wants to stop thinking about him in those terms; those are the terms that she is trying to leave behind. Hell, if Steve can open himself up like this, abandon caution and reason, she needs to be able to do something similar. “I’m here,” she says, and yes, it’s a feeble offering, but perhaps he recognizes the heroic effort she puts into it, because if anything, his smile gets even wider. There’s nothing predatory in it, nothing threatening or lustful, and once again, Natasha starts to question the ways in which she has read his words and behaviors. Until the next moment, when Steve abruptly pulls her to him, practically jerking her against his chest, and brings his mouth down to hers in a kiss that--there’s no other way to put it--makes her shudder with desire, and need, and yes, fear.

He feels the shudder, and maybe he misinterprets it, because he pulls away immediately, and Natasha has to bite her lip to suppress the groan that comes when she registers the loss of those firm lips pressing against hers.

“What is it?” he asks, studying her. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

It’s a typically Steve question, but at the same time--not the Steve she needs right now, or at least not the _side_ of Steve she needs right now. She wants to see the Steve who collects and uses that cache of pornographic material. She wants to feel his hands on her body, she wants to experience the ways in which he intends to claim her, she wants to learn what it’s like to release herself into something bigger, she wants to see his eyes blown wide with fierce lust and focus upon her, and she wants to feel him blow apart her world and yet re-assemble it within the boundaries of _Steve’_ s world.

But how does she say any of this? How does she tell him what she wants, when she’s not quite sure what she wants? How does she articulate the images that have been flitting through her mind all day, images that have arisen as much from curiosity as desire?

“You’re shaking,” Steve’s voice cuts into the thoughts he cannot know are tumbling about in her head. “And you didn’t wear a jacket. You nut.” He gently takes her hand and tugs her to the couch. “You sit down, and I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

Again, this is still the Steve that she knows, but maybe just a dash more assertive. Nothing to raise any red-flags and send her screaming back to the Tower just yet--

Steve reappears, holding  two wine glasses filled with a liquid that’s a rich red, and incredibly fragrant. “Mulled wine,” he explains as he passes her a glass, and then sits down on the couch beside her. “It’s early in the season for it, but I couldn’t resist. Cheers.”

They clink glasses and for a moment simply enjoy the delicious, and oddly comforting drink. And then Steve sets down his glass and turns to Nat. “You ready for this?”

Is she? Only one way to find out. Natasha straightens up, as though preparing for a blow, and who knows? Maybe she is. She’s not exactly a stranger to the BDSM scene; every now and then the need comes up in her work for her to take on a sub- or dom-role. But each time she’s done it, it’s been with a specific purpose that had nothing to do with her sexual pleasure or psychological satisfaction--and there’s been more than once that she’s had to allow herself to get pretty roughed up in the course of fulfilling the mission.

“You look like you think I plan to toss you in my dungeon and never let you out,” Steve remarks. “You know I don’t have a dungeon, right? I barely have a second bedroom, and that’s for my art studio. Trust me, my _drawing_ is much more of a hobby than any sexcapades. Drink some more,” he adds, and follows his own command. “I just tried this recipe--my mother used to try to set aside a little bit of money at Christmas to get some bootlegged wine to work with, and it was terrible, of course. But we drank it anyway…” He drifts off after a moment. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.” Natasha looks down into the ruby-red drink. “I guess I just don’t know really what to expect. What happens now?”

“What happens now,” Steve says thoughtfully, “is that we talk. I don’t want to drag you to my bed and have my possibly very twisted way with you, just to figure out that I’m doing something you’re not comfortable with.”

“Talking.” Intellectually, Natasha knows this is about as textbook _normal_ as a relationship of any sort can get. “Huh. Okay…” Stalling for time, she takes another sip of her mulled wine, but her eyes peep over the rim of her glass to watch Steve. “Did you want to talk first?”

“Would it make you feel more comfortable if I did?” he responds immediately, and his face--so beautiful already--reflects such earnestness, such clarity of purpose that it almost makes her want to cry. “Okay. But it might mean me asking you questions. You need to answer them, and you need to answer them honestly.” He reaches out and lightly grips her chin, turning her face and forcing her to look straight at him. “You get that, right? Just be honest. You’re safe here. If you're not honest, I could hurt you. We could hurt each other.”

She nods once, slowly, almost hypnotized by the intensity of his gaze. He strokes her chin slowly, sweeping his thumb across her skin, always watching her, looking for her reaction. So very, very slightly, she leans her face into his touch.

“Have you done this before?” he asks, finally. He’s reluctant to break that moment of simple, sensual touch, but he knows it’s vital. “Anything along these lines?”

The clench of her jaw is almost imperceptible, but he still can tell. “Only...professionally,” she finally admits, and immediately winces. “God, that sounds awful. You know what I mean, right? It’s not something I’ve done in my off-work hours.”

Steve nods, and thank god, there’s no judgment in his eyes, or his demeanor. Not even any pity, which she encounters rather more often than one would expect. No, with Steve, there’s only curiosity. “But it’s something you’ve thought about?” he prompts.

For a few moments, Natasha doesn’t answer, not because she doesn’t know, but because she’s trying to figure out how best to articulate what she’s about to say. “Honestly, I’ve only thought about it for myself with one person. Most of the time, I’ve had to do scenes with people on missions, and _because_ it was a mission, I couldn’t get into the scene like you’re supposed to.  Getting into it could have gotten me killed. I had to be constantly aware and present, even though I’m _pretending_ to be lost and getting off on whatever.”

“That sounds...doubly complicated. And incredibly stressful.” Steve shakes his head, finishes the rest of his wine. “I’ve said it before. What you do is amazing, in so many ways. But...you said you thought about it, personally, with one person?”

“Yup.” Natasha struggles for a moment to be both honest yet discreet. “I kind of...tried, with Clint. He was the only person I trusted enough, at that point. But that wasn’t something that he was really responsive to. He’s a more...he likes assertive women. Which god, I can do quite well. But it was just something else about us that didn’t quite mesh.  He wasn't comfortable with it, and the last thing I wanted was to make him uncomfortable. We couldn’t be what the other needed.”

“Can we?” Steve asks softly. “What do you need, Natasha?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t...really know yet? I guess I’m not ruling out much of anything, because I haven’t had a chance to learn what I enjoy, personally, for myself.” Suddenly she feels like she has been speaking too much, and now it’s Steve’s turn. “What about you? What is it that you need? What do you want from me?”

Steve chuckles. “The thing is, I have pretty varied tastes. I’m fairly flexible and open-minded. But I’m always worried that people are going to be shocked and offended and disgusted. That they aren’t able to separate me from Captain America.”

“I promise not to judge.” And to tell the truth, Natasha finds herself quite intrigued. “You’re hedging, Steve. ‘Fess up.”

He leans in close, and gently tugs a lock of her hair and tucks it behind her ear. He brings his mouth against her ear, and his breath is hot as he whispers, “I like to have my girl tied up all night, nice and naked and ready for me. I like to make her hot and wet, licking out her pussy, sucking her clit, getting her worked up, close to coming half a dozen times, until she’s shaking and begging and practically crying for me to fuck her. And then there are other times when I want to see how much fucking she can take, because god help her, I can go a damned long time.” He pauses. “Shall I tell you more?”

Natasha swallows, realizing as she does that her mouth is dry, that her breath is caught in her throat, and that she’s very much interested in what Steve has to say next. But-- “No.”

Drawing back, Steve is once more the utterly respectful, verging on uncertain, colleague and teammate. It’s both endearing and incredibly sexy to know that these two halves of him exist together--gentle Steve and his alter ego, fiercely lusty dom Steve. “I don’t want you to tell me more,” Natasha says firmly, and then crawls into his lap. “I want you to show me.” She initiates a hot, dirty kiss, feeling rather than hearing his surprised groan come forth from his lip just before he responds with mutual enthusiasm. For a few moments, they trade power back and forth, as they each try to explore each other, tongues teasing, licking, pressing...and then, Steve does something that surprises her. Almost hesitantly, he winds a hand into her hair and tugs.  But his voice is firmer and more resolute. “Hey. You want me to be in charge or not?”

And just like that, as she feels the warmth building in her stomach, quickly spreading and becoming a wetness between her legs, Natasha has her answer, and knows without a doubt that this is definitely something she wants. And she wants it with Steve.

* * *

For a rather long while, Steve wants nothing more than to relish the feel of this incredible woman on his lap, eagerly drinking him in and trying so very hard to open herself up to his...interests. Of course, it seems that they are Natasha’ interests, too, but still, it’s a fine line that he has to carefully balance. She’s hesitant--not ever a word he thought he would use with Natasha Romanov, but nonetheless, it’s the best word for it--but curious, and desirous, too, judging by her warm mouth, her roving hands, her occasional gasps whenever her does something new.

At one point, he pauses in their leisurely kissing, and pulls himself into the present enough to be aware, objectively, that they are both still (remarkably) fully clothed, although Natasha is straddling him, practically riding him as she grinds against his rather painfully-hard cock, pressing against his pants. “Let’s go to my room,” he suggests, his voice low. “If you want, I can tie you up and go down on you for hours…” God knows he wants to see Natasha’s beautiful cunt, which he knows is silkily wet, and he knows he can keep her like that for a long time. “Or would you rather not know what I’m doing next. I can take a strip of black silk, wrap it around, blindfold you. You won’t know what’s happening next...”

Steve cuts himself off and pulls her in for another kiss, a hard and possessive one that leaves her lips feeling slightly swollen by the time he pulls away. “I’m taking you to my bed now.” And with no more warning than that, he rises from the couch, easily carrying Natasha--still, technically, straddling him, although now her legs are wrapping themselves around his waist, and _fuck_ , it’s all he can do to keep himself from yanking off her jeans and taking her right there, in the hallway outside his bedroom, fucking her up against the wall.

But, god, this is Natasha, a national treasure as far as he’s concerned, and he’s going to do this right, with him pressing her gorgeous, supple body into the mattress, her hands clutching the sheets as his fingers and tongue and dick coax her into equal parts blissful submission and greedy lust. He wants to do this right, he wants to do right by her, and so there will be no quickies, no fucking against a wall--not tonight, anyway. There will be no quick escape from the night of torturous pleasure and even, possibly, pain that he knows they both want to give each other.

He manages to get them into the bedroom, and it’s then that he realizes how _into_ this Natasha has become. She’s all over him, she’s raw hunger and energy and fire, ready to consume him. But is that what she wants? Is that what she needs?

Step by step, he makes his way over to the bed, and when he feels the mattress pressing against the back of his knees, he sits down, with Natasha still straddling him. But they’ve broken their kiss, and so the position is terribly intimate, their faces mere inches away from each other. “I gotta ask,” Steve says, and his voice is rough with barely-checked desire. “Anything you don’t want me to do? That you’re not comfortable with?”

Natasha’s eyes dart away from his probing gaze, but it’s nothing that’s evasive. She appears to be thinking. Or perhaps remembering. “Guns,” she says finally. “I don’t want you to do anything with guns, or--or knives. And I don’t want any bodily fluids, other than what comes out of your dick and your mouth.” Her bluntness tears a surprised grunt of laughter from Steve. “You?”

_Well, it does work both ways_ , Steve reminds himself. “I don’t..I don’t want to call you any degrading names. At least not now. I don’t know how you feel about it, but it’s a complicated side-issue.” He senses her nod in acceptance. “If it’s something you want later...if you even want a later, we can talk about it.”

She nods, and then, with a surprising amount of hesitation, she asks, “What about punishment?”

Careful to keep his voice coolly neutral, Steve repeats the word. “Punishment.”

“You know…” Natasha gestures back towards the closet, where she originally found his various...equipment. “I saw things in there. Floggers. Riding crops. Is that something you want to do with me? Beating me, or…” she struggles with the words, and it’s certainly disconcerting and almost sweet to see her like this. “...Punishing me?”

Trying very hard to ignore the rapid hardening of his cock, Steve manages to restrain himself. “I’ve done it before. I’m not opposed to it.” Can she tell that he’s only telling her a half-truth? That in the last couple of days, it’s become a rather favorite fantasy of his, to have her bent over his knees, begging for him to stop even as she grows more aroused, as he smacks her ass, hard, over some agreed-upon infraction? “Do you want that?”

It’s a moment before she gives him a verbal response, but all of the non-verbal cues are already in place. “It’s something I want to try, at some point.”

They both know that they’re tiptoeing around each other. It’s an unusual thing, to see Natasha less than utterly sure of herself, less than forthright and clear in her expectations. But then, Steve reminds himself, part of why Natasha is here is to give up the need to be in control, to express her needs. She’s here because she _needs_ for Steve to take care of her, for Steve to be the one who’s in control, to anticipate what she craves. Time to stop thinking, stop talking, and start doing.

Still, one more thing, the most important thing. “Safewords?”

Natasha smiles then, and he knows, without her having to say anything, that this is one of the only--if not the only--times in which someone has taken that into consideration. “Red, yellow, and green are fine,” she tells him quietly.

He nods once, locking eyes with her to make sure she knows he understands. And then, with no warning, he makes his first masterful move, tipping backward and pulling her down on top of him, but then quickly flipping her onto her back and trapping her body beneath his. He hears her sharp intake of air and smiles in the satisfaction of knowing that just this once, he caught her off-guard. “You’re in for it now, doll,” he promises, just before gathering her wrists into one hand and pulling her arms taut over her head.

For her part, Natasha is willing to roll with this. She’s so fucking aroused, so wet, and really, what have they been doing other than making out with a little bit of dirty talk? But now Steve’s actively restraining her with one hand, and starting to work at the buttons on her blouse with the other hand, all the while looking down at her, as though he has every intention of devouring her. His eyes have gone a dark blue, and he’s staring at her, unblinking, as one by one, he undoes the buttons. Is he simply enjoying the glimpses of her breasts, or is he on the watch for a change of heart or mind? She has her answer a moment later, when he reaches the last button and suddenly releases her wrists to pull the shirt from her body. He unfastens her bra just a second later.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful,” Steve whispers reverentially, the Brooklyn accent more audible than ever, and it might be the sexiest thing Natasha has heard tonight. It’s a different side of Steve, rougher around the edges, perhaps a little more honest and genuine and unreserved.

His gaze darts from her watchful eyes to her full lips, down to her generous breasts and the planes of her stomach. “I think I need to know that you’re not goin’ anywhere, ‘cause I got plans to fuck you all night long.” He releases her wrists for a moment and rises from the bed. “Let’s see what we can do to keep you comfortable. Don’t move, doll, or maybe you’ll get your punishment sooner than you think.”

To be fair, Natasha doesn’t move _from the bed_ , but she does allow curiosity to get the best of her, and she sits up a little, propping herself onto an elbow to get a better view of whatever it is that Steve is up to. She sees that he’s rummaging through his closet--the naughty closet--but not for long. When he turns back to her, he’s holding a couple of long, soft scarves.

“Really? You know that I could bust out of those in no time,” Natasha points out.

“That’s the idea,” Steve says simply. “At least this time. I want you know that you _can_ get out or away if you need to.”

And damned if that right there isn’t the sexiest bit about all of this, Natasha realizes as suddenly Steve launches himself towards  her. He forces her back down onto the mattress, his legs pinning hers down as he easily catches her wrists and immediately sets about wrapping them in the scarves, and tying the scarves to the bedposts.

Natasha gives a few experimental thrusts with her legs and hips, seeing if she can buck him off, but Steve’s body weight is a extraordinarily effective restraint, completely immobilizing the lower half of her body. And the bucking of her hips only spurs Steve on. He chuckles. “More eager than you’d like to admit, aren’t you?”

Without  waiting for a response, he goes to work on the remainder of her clothing, practically tearing off her boots, jeans, and panties in his eagerness. He stands back for a moment to behold Natasha, who is now completely naked and half-immobilized. “I kinda like this,” Steve says thoughtfully. “Just havin’ you here, ready when I want you. I could maybe just keep you here as long as I want to…” He drifts off for a second. “Close your eyes and keep ‘em closed.”

Natasha obeys, trying to ignore the sudden escalation in her heartbeat. She’s trained to rely on other senses when a particular one is deadened or inhibited, but this is a bit beyond her usual expertise. Still, she wills herself to lay quietly, still, not flinching when she feels Steve’s hands around her head, and then a soft piece of cloth being wrapped around her eyes.

“There,” Steve says. “I think I’ll keep you like that for a while,  a nice little package waiting for me for whenever I want, to do whatever I want with…”

She feels the mattress shift as he rises from it, and she hears his retreating footsteps. His scent--a simple one of soap and leather--diminishes. Has he left the room? She hasn’t heard a door open or close, but she can’t remember if they had closed it to begin with, and the more she tries to force herself to remember, the faster her heart begins to beat, the louder the blood pumps in her ears--

A part of her knows that she could easily pull herself out of the scarf restraints that Steve fashioned, but another part of her--the part of her that wants to trust Steve and see where this goes--holds her back. But the darkness pressing around her eyes, and by extension her whole being, is suffocating her. So instead of jerking out of her bonds, Natasha chokes out _“Red”_ just before her breath begins to come in harsh gasps.

And wherever it was that Steve went off to, he’s here by her side immediately, his hands carefully pulling the blindfold away from her head. “I’m here,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring. “It was the blindfold?”

“Yeah,” Natasha manages to say. “Leave it off, okay?”

“Absolutely.” Steve doesn’t ask a single question--it’s clear her request is nonnegotiable, as far as he’s concerned, and he tosses the blindfold away. He runs a hand down her cheek, stroking her skin. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Natasha can’t explain what just happened, not to him, and barely to herself. It’s something she’ll have to figure out at some point, but not now--particularly because it’s right now she figures out that in the brief period of time he had her blindfolded, Steve had shed all his clothing. “Glad I can see this, actually,” Natasha says, allowing her eyes to traverse the sight of all him in all his entirety.

And-- _no surprise there-_ -the entirety of Steve is rather...substantial. Of course, there’s been plenty of speculation about Steve’s endowments, but seeing is believing, and Natasha finally appreciates this as she takes in his cock, thrusting upwards, beautifully erect, and thick. For the first time, she silently curses her restraints, for every instinct in her is crying out for her to reach out, touch, stroke, _devour._

“You’re breathing pretty hard,” Steve observes. “You need for me to untie you?”

She shakes her head. “ _No._ I need for you to fuck me.”

“I will,” Steve promises her. “But not just yet.” He kisses her again, but can it really be called kissing? It’s more as though his tongue is fucking her mouth, in rhythm with his fingers, which are suddenly working her pussy--index and middle finger penetrating and stroking, immediately growing slick with her arousal, and the heel of his hand gently grinding against her clit. “God, Nat, you’re--”  he cuts himself off as he notices her body beginning to show the tell-tale signs of approaching orgasm, and pulls his hand away, leaving her gasping and tightly-wound and swearing softly in protest.

“No backtalk, now,” Steve admonishes her. He’s enjoying the sight of her bucking hips and her tense limbs, and good god, his brain is temporarily short-circuiting as he’s assaulted with all sorts of ideas, things he wants to to do with her and to her, but his cock is painfully hard, and he cannot, _will_ not wait any longer--he seizes her legs and simultaneously leans into her, draping her legs over his shoulders as he starts to slide slowly, deliciously into her, allowing her the chance to grow accustomed to him, inch by excruciating inch. They’re both breathing in controlled inhalations, and Steve makes certain to keep his eyes open and locked on her, ever alert for any change, any misgiving. But the only alteration comes when he is fully seated within her, and gives an experimental thrust, and Natasha emits an involuntary cry.

He instantly stills. “Too much?”

“ _No_ , god no,” Natasha groans. She’s honestly a little amazed by how incredible it feels, being pinned down under Steve, feeling the controlled power in his limbs. And immediately after that, getting what can only be described as a thorough fucking--there’s no more hesitation or consideration, no more going slowly; just Steve turning into what she can only think, half-stupidly, as a super-dom. The look of intensity on his face, the concentration that’s nonetheless blended with controlled lust, transforms him into something utterly alien, yet beautiful and fascinating, too--

This thought is interrupted as she feels Steve’s body stiffen and his thrusts grow more erratic, and a moment later, he comes to climax, making no effort to smother his groan of pleasure.  The orgasm seems to roll through his body like a seismic Rayleigh wave.  Part of Natasha’s brain is pleased to see this, pleased to see him I unreserved in his role as a dominant--but another part of her brain is disappointed in _both_ of them--she hasn’t orgasmed yet.

“You haven’t had an orgasm yet.”

Steve is studying her intently, and Natasha has to set aside her disappointment for just a moment to marvel at the fact that he seems to be perfectly coherent, and how the hell often does that happen? She manages a quick shrug--no easy feat, considering her arms are still tied down. “Nothing personal,” she tells him truthfully. “Doesn’t often happen for me that way.”

“Not good enough,” Steve says shortly, and with no further explanation or fanfare, presses her knees flush to her chest and brings his head down to her pussy. From that point on, all conscious, coherent thought--which she will later realized have plagued her through this entire time--is no more, chased away by the feel of Steve’s tongue, plunging into her, his teeth skimming just so slightly across the sensitive skin, his lips, sucking at her clit. This time, when he feels the tension building within her, he doesn’t hold back, doesn’t pause--he only goes at her with renewed intensity until her body seizes up and she chokes out a cry of sheer, ecstatic abandon. He keeps up his attentions on her pussy, though, slowly licking away their mingled fluids from her pussy and then her thighs until the most violent of her shaking has passed.

“Better?” Steve asks, and Natasha manages a distracted nod. “Good. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

In any situation outside of the one they are currently in, this would sound both presumptuous and absurd-- no one _takes care_ of Natasha Romanov. But they both know that here, different rules apply. “I always want to make sure you come,” Steve continues as he carefully unties the scarves. “Unless of course, I say you can’t.” He slowly runs his hands down her shoulders and arms. “Sore?”

“Not at all,” she assures him, and then smirks. “Not in any sense of the word.”

Steve grins, immediately appreciating the implications of her statement, and immediately begins to ponder what to do next.

It's going to be a  _long_ night. Thank God.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I'm so sorry. Life and the summer got away from me. I haven't abandoned this story, I promise. Within the next 3 weeks or so, I hope to have another chapter update...

_What’s the standard etiquette and protocol for a relationship in which both partners are friends and colleagues, ostensibly involved in no-strings-attached, increasingly intense and more than occasionally kinky sex? And also occasionally called upon to save the world?_

It wasn’t a question that either Steve or Natasha have anticipated asking themselves, and yet...they both know they should have seen it coming. Later that night, as they both finally collapse back onto Steve’s (thankfully sturdy) mattress, their bodies somewhat battered but quite sated, they both find themselves asking this question, or at least a variation of it. For Steve, the question presents as _what next_? and for Natasha, the question presents as _How the hell do I get out of here?_

Fortunately, they both find an answer to their question--both of them, by relying on their own instincts. As Steve gently rolls Natasha over onto her belly and gently runs his fingers over her back and shoulders, feeling the mostly-smooth skin and taking in the various scars that catch on his fingertips, he says, with quiet practicality, “It’s late. Did you drive?”

“Taxi,” Natasha mumbles from where her face is buried in a pillow. “Didn’ wan’ any of ‘em to know where I was off to.”

She doesn’t need to specify who “they” are, and Steve knows not to ask. He simply continues running his fingers, more and more lightly, over her planes and contours. Finally he says, “You should stay here,” before decisively pulling the duvet up over Natasha’s naked body and then drawing her to him. “You need anything?”

“Mmmph.” Natasha, so used to taking her cues from others and molding her behaviors accordingly, finds herself more than a little grateful that here, again, is a responsibility, a decision that Steve has taken on for her...thereby preventing her either doing a runner or wondering if she’s overstaying her welcome. Fact is, she’s dimly aware that she _wants_ to stay. Her body, so thoroughly sated, wants very much to slip into sleep, and the heavy, solid, warm presence of Steve right by her is offering pretty strong persuasion to do just that. She’s dimly aware of Steve’s quiet chuckle before she slips into a comfortable and comforted darkness.

* * *

It’s hard to say for certain who wakes up first. Most likely they somehow manage it at the same time, each of them remaining somewhat still so as to not wake the other, and thereby initiate The Morning After. But at some point after Steve awakens, sprawled on his back and looking up at the grey ceiling, his eyes slide over and take in Natasha, laying on her back and eyeing him sideways, too.

He huffs a laugh, and a moment later, a smile tugs at Natasha’s lips, too. “Good morning,” he says quietly.

“Morning.” Natasha debates internally for a moment, and then rolls over onto her side to have a better view of him. “Did you sleep well?”

“I’m the host,” Steve points out. “Shouldn’t that be my line? How did you sleep?”

It escapes the attention of neither of them that neither of them answer the question, and that right there is their answer. The truth is that both of them are accustomed to sleeping most comfortably on their own.

Abruptly, Steve sits up and swings his legs out of bed, but as he notices Natasha bestir herself, he presses a hand against her shoulder and presses her back down. “Take it easy,” he says. “It’s early yet. I was just gonna put on some coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee,” Natasha points out. The look he gives her before he leaves the room is both amused and fond and says everything: _But you do._

She spends all of three minutes laying there in bed, listening to the muffled sounds of Steve moving around his kitchen, before she gives up--She’s never been one much for sleeping in, and just because she’s on administrative leave and potentially engaging in a complicatedly sexy involvement with Steve Rogers doesn’t give her enough of an excuse to start lazing about in bed now. With that in mind, she starts to emerge from under the blankets...well, whoops, she’s naked. And her clothes are where, exactly?

A few moments later, when she emerges into the kitchen, Steve does a double-take and nearly drops the coffee mug he’s holding. “Where’d you get that?” he manages to say, indicating the oversized Hugo Boss dress shirt she has donned. _His_ shirt, to be exact.

“I didn’t get it from the closet to the right of your dresser, that’s for sure,” Natasha smirks. She doesn’t bother _not_ to notice the way that Steve’s eyes are pretty damned appreciative as he takes in her slim calves and her muscled thighs, just barely revealed by the hem of the shirt. “Is this okay?”

Steve turns and sets the coffee mug down on the counter and takes a deep, steadying breath before turning around to face her again. “Is it okay that the most gorgeous fuckin’ woman I’ve met in seventy years and tried very hard to fuck into next year is now standing in front of me, dressed up in nothing but my shirt? Is it okay that this scene has been reduced to an erotic cliche?” He gestures downwards, where Natasha can now see the outline of his cock, fully hard and annoyingly restrained  by his sweatpants. “Does this look okay?”

“Not yet, it doesn’t.” Natasha cannot help but to be a little surprised by his tone, which is growing just a little bit edgier. But what’s more surprising is that she is becoming quickly aroused by this--the dampness between her thighs, the heavy, anticipatory tingle at her core both beautifully clear indications that a part of her _likes_ this side of Steve. “You want me to make it okay? Shouldn’t take too long to make you feel better.”

It takes longer than either of them anticipate, actually, because, well...in the morning light, out of the relative security of the bedroom, they both discover that they are taking to this new dynamic in their relationship quite well, and are eager to enjoy other areas of Steve’s home. Specifically, the kitchen chair, where Steve sits, legs splayed, feet braced firmly against the floor, hands gripping Natasha’s waist as she fucks herself onto his cock, riding him for all she’s worth, until he comes with a muffled shout. Also, specifically, the kitchen table, which Steve has her bent over soon after they abandon the chair. He bends her over the table and takes her, deliciously and slowly, from behind, both of them reveling in the new angle, the different contact. This, along with the limited visibility of Steve, yet coupled with his presence right behind her, does something to Natasha, and her subsequent orgasm is almost painful in its intensity.

Only after that, after Steve pulls the shirt back down so that it modestly covers most of her assets, does he remark, “I think the coffee’s ready.”

The coffee _is_ ready, and Steve pours a steaming mug for Natasha before pulling out a seat for her and passing her the mug. He pours himself a mug, too, and gestures to the dishes in the center of the table. “Cream and sugar are there.”

Natasha throws a look at him, nonplussed. They’ve lived under the same roof for how long, and Steve’s supposed to be one of the most observant people around. Seems like he’d be the type to observe how she takes her coffee and fix it accordingly. But no, he’s simply standing at his chair, waiting for her to sit before he does. So she sits, and she reaches for the sugar packets (half a packet; it’s an indulgence, to be sure, but she’s no fucking Spartan when she doesn’t have to be) and taps the sugar into her coffee.

Only then does Steve sit, and takes a hearty swig from his own cup.

“You don’t drink coffee,” she feels the need to point out. Steve just smiles slightly and takes another sip.

For a few moments, they are both silent. Natasha is waiting, waiting, waiting for the quiet to turn awkward, but then, she realizes, the quiet can only be awkward if they _feel_ awkward. And she doesn’t feel awkward, and by the looks of Steve, who’s simply sitting, almost peacefully, he doesn’t, either.

A loud rumbling noise grabs the attention of both of them--it’s the sound of technology on vibrate. “My phone,” Steve sighs. He disappears into the living room for a moment and then comes back, reading through the message that he’s just received. “Fury wants me and Stark and Bruce to come in today for an update on the investigation on the Embassy explosion.”

Natasha frowns, thinks of her phone in her jeans pocket. “I didn’t get any message.”

The look Steve gives her is kind, and it confuses her for a moment until she realizes. “Fury doesn’t want me there.”

“You’re on admin leave,” Steve agrees, with reluctance. “You’re not allowed to be there.”

She sighs noisily, takes a sip of her coffee. “What time does he want you there?”

“At noon. I can stop in and see how Clint’s doing after that.” He smiles as he sees the flash of gratitude in her eyes. “Promise you’re not going to stow away into the back of Stark’s party car?”

“I promise.” As unhappy as Natasha is with being on admin leave, she knows it’s something she deserves, and she has no wish to antagonize Fury any further. “Next you’re gonna tell me not to get JARVIS to hack into the investigation files.”

Steve’s barely-suppressed snort of laughter takes her by surprise. “Nat, I know better than to even think about trying to talk you out of it. And Fury probably expects it anyway. If you find anything out...just don’t go all vengeful on us. It’s not going to help matters.”

He’s right, of course. He knows it, and Natasha knows it, which makes it even more annoying.

“I just…” Steve takes another sip of the coffee and gamely refrains from making a face. “You know I’m not tryin’ to make you do anything you don’t want to? In here, or out there? I’m not trying to throw my weight around, or manipulate you because of...this.”

“It helps to hear it, but yeah, I know.” Natasha gives him a small but grateful smile. “But I also know when we live these fucked-up lives, it can be kind of impossible to keep the personal and the professional separate.”

Steve gives her a disbelieving look, so she tries to articulate what she’s thinking. “When I’m on mission with SHIELD, sure, _then_ it’s easy, especially undercover. Compartmentalizing, and all of that, going into character, that’s easy. But working with you and the rest of the Avengers team? That’s harder. We work together, but we _live_ together, too. It can’t _not_ be personal. And when you add wild and emotionally-complex sex to the mix, _and_ remember that we have to depend on each other for our lives when we’re in the field together…”

There’s a lot of truth in what she’s saying, and he admires her for admitting to these things, but… “Emotionally complex sex?”

“What the hell else would you call sex when there’s no ostensible commitment, a presumed element of secrecy, and yet there’s a negotiation of power being exchanged, or given up?”

Steve can’t help but to admire this fearless woman and the way she faces down everything, identifies it, doesn’t shy away from calling it how it is. “You’re something else, Natasha Romanov.”

Any further conversation along these lines is halted when Steve’s phone buzzes again, this time with a phone call. Steve glances at the display. “It’s Tony. I’d better answer this.”

Natasha rises from the table and gathers both of their mugs. As she dumps the now-cold coffee down the drain she unashamedly listens in to Steve’s half of the conversation. There’s no shame to be had, because Steve isn’t trying to shut her out, and it’s not as though there is much to overhear. Conversations with Tony Stark quite often require nothing more than occasional noises of interest and monosyllabic answers, and sometimes no noises or answers at all.

Finally, Steve manages to get a word in, and what he says soon has Natasha smiling. “I wouldn’t worry about her, Tony. It’s a big city, and she’s probably got half a dozen boltholes she could go to. She’s probably taking some time for herself...she’s had it a little rough.” Both Steve and Natasha consider the double entendre of that statement, and Steve has to turn away so as to maintain his straight face. “I wouldn’t worry. She’ll turn up. If she doesn’t by this evening, we’ll start digging around.”

After he manages to extract himself from the call and hang up, Steve unnecessarily informs Natasha, “Who’d have thought Tony would be the curfew enforcer? He was concerned when you didn’t come home last night.”

“I notice you didn’t set the record straight,” Natasha smirks.

“Not my place.” For Steve, the answer is both simple and clear. “It ain’t nice for a fella to go around bragging about the company he keeps in his off-hours. God knows I’m not ashamed of you--quite the contrary, let me tell you--but it’s your call, who knows about us.”

It’s such a beautifully, comfortingly typical Steve response--defiant, yet respectful. How can Natasha answer that? With all the mess that’s going on around them right now, the last thing they need to do is muddy the waters with knowledge of their current...involvement. “I think for now, let’s just keep it between you and I. No need to mention something that’s…” _That’s what? fleeting? empty? transitory?_  “In very early stages,” she finishes.

“I understand.” And as far as Steve’s concerned, that settles it.  Changing the subject, he now asks, “What did you want to do? Stay here? I’ve got plenty of…” he casts around for a moment… “art supplies and erotica to keep you entertained.”

“Very hospitable of you, but no thanks. Although, the erotica might give me some inspiration…”

“From what I’ve seen, gorgeous, you don’t need a single shred of inspiration.” Steve smiles, remembering. “But...can I ask you something?”

Natasha’s walls go up so quickly, he can practically see the bricks going up. Still, she keeps her voice pleasantly neutral, and doesn’t appear to be reaching for any sharp objects. “Shoot.”

“You... _are_ enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Steve’s uncertainty is such a contrast to his previous assured movements and actions; Natasha bites back a laugh. He has asked a serious question, so he deserves a serious answer. “Yes, I am. Why?”

“You seem pretty content to let me take the lead.”

“Isn’t that the _point_ of a BDSM relationship?”

Steve shrugs. “Hard to say. It’s not like I’ve got a lot of expertise. But from where I stand, I think it’s a good idea to know what my partner wants and likes. I know what I want and like, but I want to know what _you_ are wanting.To me, that’s what keeps things like this healthy and balanced.”

“Like a BDSM diet?” Natasha cannot resist teasing him. “Captain America is the new spokesman for the National BDSM Diet Campaign. I like it! Think of all the ad revenue you could score.”

“You’re avoiding the subject, Nat.” Steve’s eyes are narrowed in shrewd speculation. “There’s a reason, isn’t there?”

_Dammit_. She should have known that sex with Steve would be no simple thing. Of course he’d be all about communication and honesty. “You know I don’t like to talk about my work.”

“I don’t mind listening, if that’s part of what you’re concerned about.”

When Natasha finally decides to answer, the words come out in a rush that she doesn’t try to check.  “I’m used to doing whatever it takes to gain the access to and trust of my mark. Sometimes that means letting them do what they want.” Natasha senses, rather than sees, Steve’s agitation as he considers this. “And when that happens, they’re usually not very concerned about safewords and hard limits. At all. I’ve _done_ plenty of this BDSM stuff. But it feels so strange to me to _want_ it for myself.  I feel like I should feel ashamed, to actively seek out these thing that I have to endure in my work.”

Steve tries very hard to keep the hurt out of his voice. “So what we’ve been doing...it’s something you endure?”

_“No!”_ Natasha reaches over and grips his arm. “No. Not at all. And that’s part of what’s disconcerting to me right now, because this, with you, I want, and I’m trying to reconcile this with what I’ve had to do, and what I’ve had to allow to be done to me, on my missions.”

Now Steve sees and understands, more than he wishes he did, and a part of him wants to simply grieve for her, and the hand she has been dealt. “Maybe reconcile it this way: these two parts of your life are nothing alike. It’s like...” he casts about for an adequate analogy, fails, and so grabs the first inadequate one that comes to mind. “It’s like a librarian who has to read boring stuff, dry reports, for his job. But then he goes home and _chooses_ to read _what he wants to._ And he doesn’t let the boring, painful reading keep him from doing the pleasant, recreational reading.”

For a long moment, Natasha stares at him, incredulous. “Did you just compare…” she can’t even finish the sentence, and Steve can only nod sheepishly. “It was the best I could do on the fly.”

She mulls over it for a second. “It makes a bit of sense.” And it does; Steve has made a damned good point, even if he’s made it through the single most unlikely analogy imaginable.

“I have an idea,” Steve says suddenly, and without further explanation, leaves the kitchen, leaving her to mull over his words and wonder what he’s getting up to. He doesn’t give her too much time to wonder, however, for he returns to the kitchen quickly. In his hands he’s holding a leather satchel, similar to the messenger bag in which he usually carries his art supplies and sketchpad. “Here,” he says, and passes her the bag. “Take it back to the Tower with you.”

Natasha gives the bag an experimental heft. “What is it?” She’s got a few ideas, though--it’s not like the bag is exactly light.

“You’ll see, soon enough,” Steve smirks, and- _-When the hell did Steve take up smirking?_ She finds herself wondering as she watches the way his lips curl up in amusement over something, some secret knowledge that only he has. _Does he know how arousing that is?_ It is arousing, that much Natasha knows--and feels--the thought that there’s something less than pristine and sweet to Steve. There’s an edge there, an edge with a sharpness that grows in direct proportion to the growth in her awareness of the less obvious aspects of Steve.

Oblivious--or possibly not--Steve continues. “Let’s see how you do following a few non-work orders.”

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t look in the bag until I send you a message telling you to.” He looks at her, his eyes clear and bright, but all traces of levity gone, completely. “Will you do that?”

_Will you do that?_ Not _can_. But _will_. Of course, Natasha can do that; they both know better. She’s as infected with healthy curiosity as the next person, but she’s disciplined--many times, her life has depended on following seemingly innocuous orders, some much more stringent, more along the lines of for fuck’s sake, don’t look in the bag. She knows a Pandora’s box when she sees it, and this isn’t it, but it is an order. Of course she can follow Steve’s order. But will she--will she commit to acquiescing to what Steve is asking of her, even though she has little knowledge of what comes next?

“I’ll do it.”

Steve’s mouth, claiming her in a hungry kiss, is perhaps a little surprising. One minute he had been standing a little ways away, the next, he’s right there, locking his hands against the nape of her neck and immobilizing her head as he fixes his lips against hers. He groans a little as she responds, her mouth sweetly soft and pliable against his demands. He wishes he could find a way to show her that he knows what a commitment she has made, a tiny yet hugely significant first step of submitting to him in this way. He wants her to know that he knows, to know that he honors her for this leap she’s taking. But locked into this kiss like he is, he’s not able to talk much, and really, what better way to show his appreciation than to just continue this kiss, to enjoy the feel of her lips parting with wanton, honest hunger, to relish the feel of her hands as they snake their way around his waist--

Now Steve does pull away, more than a little breathless. “Jeez, Nat. You’re hell on wheels, you know that?”

The saucy grin she gives him tells her that yes, she does know that, thank you very much.

And so Steve decides to plant one final thought in her head, something that maybe, just might help distract her during this, her first and hardest day of leave.  “I’m gonna love fucking the sass out of you,” Steve comments, almost off-handedly. “One of these nights I’m gonna strap you down to my bed and just go to town on you and fuck you senseless. Let’s see how sassy you get then, doll, after you’ve gotten a good dicking from me.”

From the half-startled, half-lustful look she gives him, Steve realizes that while Natasha may be hell on wheels, they are _both_ in for a wild ride.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here. Still committed!

Countless times, Natasha has returned to an empty Avengers Tower. The nature of their lives and jobs makes this not only inevitable, but quite likely and even usual. It’s never bothered her before, to step into the silent entrance, to feel the emptiness and lack of other humans. She’s spent most of her life being morally and emotionally isolated, so when there’s no one around, it’s not exactly an imposition. It simply means that she has the peace and solitude to return to her most essential self, without the burden or worry of others, friend or foe.

So why is this morning different? Why is it that she’s absurdly glad that it’s not _completely_ silent as she steps into the foyer and hears JARVIS’s smooth greeting of “Good morning, Agent Romanov.”

“Good morning, JARVIS.” Natasha’s not in the habit of making idle talk with Tony Stark’s AI, but she also knows better than to be rude to him, particularly when he’s clearly being considerate of her. Normally, JARVIS treats her and the others much as he treats Tony--like residents. He’s always courteous and respectful, but not in the habit making a lot of conversation unless they initiate it. But this morning is different. “Has Tony taken off?”

“Master Stark and Dr. Banner departed half an hour ago. They have been summoned to SHIELD Headquarters for further debriefing and investigation. Master Stark left a message for you; he asked me to inform you that he will do his best to transmit information about their progress, but that he suspects that Director Fury will have anticipated this and taken measures to prevent it.”

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Natasha sighs. Really, it’s no more than what she had been expecting.  She grinds her teeth for a moment, and then tries to rationalize her irritation away, but finally settles for distracting herself by contemplating her surroundings: the big, open kitchen and dining area, the common area where so often they have gathered, to read and talk and watch movies and debate and scheme and brainstorm and annoy each other. She tries very hard not to think about Steve and Tony and Bruce, conferring and planning and possibly avenging without her, and she’s very nearly successful...

“Dr. Banner also left a message,” JARVIS continues after a moment, as though he can sense the journey of her thoughts from determined avoidance to grumpy wallowing, and who knows?  He probably _can_ , or at least is attuned enough to her various biological tells to know. “He asked me to inform you that he brewed a fresh pot of coffee for you, shortly before they left, and that there is a box of blueberry muffins on the counter from Levain Bakery on the counter.”

Natasha is no stranger to lies--she can tell them to herself as well as she can tell them to others. Whatever it takes to get her through the day, the mission, the life, she’ll do it. But at this particular moment, she cannot lie to herself and tell herself that these are not tears stinging in her eyes as she is confronted with the consideration these people are giving her--Tony, offering her the consolation of information and inclusion, Bruce, providing the comfort of her favorite breakfast indulgence. And of course, Steve. Steve, who has presented her with his body and his attention and God only knows what else…

 _No_. Not the right time to go down that road, not at this particular moment, when she is feeling raw and perhaps more than a little tired--her sleep had not been a deep one, the previous night--and extremely resentful towards Fury, and preoccupied about Clint. The _last_ thing she needs is to start thinking about Steve, either what he did to her and with her last night, or what can possibly be coming next.

Which reminds her--she still has his messenger bag, growing heavier each moment it’s slung on her shoulder. There are _definitely_ books in there, and though she’s curious, she knows Steve wants her to wait. So for now, she does. She’s still not sure she can submit to him, but after what blazed between them last night, she sure as hell wants to try.

* * *

Slowly, slowly, slowly, the day marches on. Natasha does her best to fill the hours--she spends a fair amount of time picking at the blueberry muffins and sipping at the coffee and trying to read the print edition of _The New York Times_ that she _knows_ Clint subscribes to, just to annoy Tony and goad him into launching into impassioned speeches about tablets. She makes several failed attempts to text Clint, on the off chance that he’s got his phone nearby. She eventually meanders her way down the gym, and it’s there that of course she finds the most satisfaction and relief. An hour of yoga, another hour of weights, and an hour swimming laps, and now she’s--not tired, of course not, but her body feels more alive, more focused, more worn, and she’s ready for a shower.

But as she’s heading up to her floor, her phone--tucked into the gym bag she carries with her, more out of habit than actual need--buzzes, letting her know that she’s gotten a text message.

_**Steve** : You around?_

_**Natasha** : Yeah._

_**Steve:** How are you?_

_**Natasha:** Going crazy._

At this, she resumes her trek back to her floor, but deftly manages to keep up their text dialogue.

_**Steve:** We should be wrapping up here in an hour or so._

_**Natasha:** Why the hell aren’t you paying attention to whatever you’re doing?_

_**Steve:** World Security Council Meeting._

That explains it. Natasha doesn’t bother to conceal a smirk as she reads this; Steve’s disdain for this shadowy organization is equalled only by his distrust of it.

_**Steve:** Pepper and Tony are flying to Malibu tonight. And Bruce is staying on at HQ to be with Clint._

She wants to pursue where she thinks Steve is going with this, but for a brief moment, she has to swallow down the stupid, petty jealousy that rises in her throat and threatens to choke her. And then, she has to focus on what else he’s saying.

_**Natasha:** How is he?_

_**Steve:** Okay, I think. Cranky. In some pain. Asking for you. Giving me loaded looks._

_**Natasha:** All evidence to the contrary, our Clint can be pretty sharp._

She makes it to her floor, heads into her bedroom, and tosses her duffel bag down beside Steve’s messenger bag. Then she focuses more on her conversation with Steve.

_**Steve:** Doctors are saying that they think he’ll progress to physical therapy on his leg pretty quickly._

_**Natasha:** God,  he’s gonna be a bitch when that happens._

_**Steve:** Don’t worry about that right now._

_**Natasha:** You’re not the boss of me._

_**Steve:** Sometimes I am._

In her rather colorful life, Natasha has encountered many, _many_ strange situations--some of them life threatening, some of them merely absurd. The time she managed to get locked overnight into the Pasadena Bunny Museum with a group of cosplayers dressed as the character of Anya from _Buffy_ stands out as the topmost contender for the best drinking story, but she’s beginning to think that flirting with Steve Rogers via text as they talk about her best friend in traction might be a bit of new competition.

_**Steve:** Have you looked in the bag yet?_

_**Natasha:** No._

_**Steve:** You can now if you want._

So she does.

Of course, she had already guessed the contents of the bag--books, several of them. Some, like _The Loving Dominant,_ she had seen in Steve’s secret stash, but others look unfamiliar to her-- _Different Loving, The Ties That Bind, The Ultimate Guide to Kink_...there are a couple of paperback novels, too. And one substantial, oversized book--Natasha takes a peek at it and sees that it’s a beautiful coffee table book, full of graphic, explicit black and white photography. Photographs in which men and women--and women and women, and men and men--are Doing Things (and sometimes _with_ things) to each other.  Natasha knows, without needing to be told, that this is a relatively tasteful illustration of the other books in the bag.

_**Natasha:** Aren’t you helpful and informative?_

_**Steve:** And selfish. I want to know what interests you. What you want to try. How far I can push you. I want to know just how much I can do to you. I need to know what’s going to make you screaming and confused, not sure if you’re begging me to stop, or begging me for more._

Her hand hovers over the screen of the phone, and she is hesitating, not quite sure what to type. But before she responds, another text from Steve comes through.

_**Steve:** I want to look at these pictures together and see for myself what turns you on. Because I saw you last night, Nat. And I saw how much you wanted what I can give you. And I know we both want to know what we can take from each other, and I know you want to see how far you can push me…_

She’s _not_ a little bit weak in the knees. She’s just had a long and harrowing few days and not a lot of sleep and a pretty demanding workout. So _of course_ her legs are feeling a little bit rubbery. But she still has her wits about her, thank you very much, so she responds with rapidity, if not originality.

_**Natasha:** How far CAN you go?_

_**Steve:** I haven’t hit the edge yet._

A lot of words, and none of them necessarily mean anything without the actions to back them up. What she knows is this: Steve has no objections to rough sex and to taking control. But she knows there’s so much more out there--so much more that she has experienced in her work, so much that has intrigued her, but that she has steered clear from indulging in while involved in her own life. With the freedom to explore, and a willing--hell, apparently enthusiastic--and trustworthy partner to accompany her, what is she willing to admit to herself?

_**Steve:** But mainly, I just want you to read these books and know that I’ve read them and seen the pictures too, and there’s nothing in them that I’m opposed to. So don’t feel you’ll be shocking me…_

Now Natasha is equally turned on and intrigued. But she’s still damp from her swim, and so--with some reluctance, she is able to admit--she sets her phone down and heads to the shower.

* * *

After her shower, after giving the pile of books a thoughtful glance, Natasha makes a decision. It’s an impulsive one, to be sure, which feels odd in and of itself. She’s not given much to impulse. But hell, she’s on leave, forced to keep away from her work, so at this point, what has she to lose? What reason is there for her to _not_  go to Steve’s floor...into Steve’s bedroom?

Of course, since this is Steve, he has never bothered to restrict access to his space, and so they have all, all along, had the ability to move in and about his rooms. But Natasha strongly suspects that none of them have ever bothered to do so--is it because they have assumed that there’s nothing that Steve needs to hide? Or just because in leaving his life open, he had taken all of the fun that they--Clint and Tony especially--would have had breaking in and digging about?

Knowing Steve as she does, Natasha suspects that there’s a fairly strong probability that this was exactly what he had planned.

Well, she’s here, on his floor, now. And she knows exactly where she’s headed.

Like when she was at Steve’s Brooklyn apartment, Natasha doesn’t hesitate to study the details of Steve’s bedroom. She doesn’t snoop, not exactly, doesn’t go digging through cabinets or drawers. But no detail that’s out in the open, able to be observed, misses her attention--not his Prairie Mission style-bed, so neatly made up and covered with a simple beige duvet; not the rest of the furniture, as equally Craftsman style as the bed, and all hopelessly out of place in the modern, sleek Stark Tower; not the stack of books on his dresser ( _Orientalism_ , by Edward Sayed, _Infinite Jest,_ by David Foster Wallace--good luck with that one, Steve-- _Beloved_ , by Toni Morrison, _Andy Warhol 365 Takes_ ; _The Historian_ , by Elizabeth Kostova; _Sex and the Single Girl_ , by Helen Gurley Brown), not the series of framed photographs on a low bookcase by a very large armchair.

 _The armchair._ That’s a good place to start at. So she places Steve’s bag by the chair and plops herself down in it, and reaches for…

...Well, of course she goes for the book of erotic photography. She knows she should read the books with actual text, but she’s very curious...and frankly, she’s a little bit sleepy, too, after the  long and largely-sleepless night before. Too much reading might knock her right out. So, curling up, she opens the book--skipping the intro, of course--and begins to delve into a world that has, by and large, never before been one that she explored for her own pleasure.

As she begins to slowly flip through the pages, she realizes something: it’s rather impossible to look at these photos and _not_ try to imagine her and Steve in the same poses, doing the same things. Which, she supposes, is the point. So, yes, okay, what do you know? Turns out, for instance, that maybe she _can_ see herself backed up against a wall, naked, trapped against Steve’s fully-clothed form, her hands pinned above her head, his hand hovering just over her pussy, getting ready to stroke and tease.

Each photo has a caption. This one reads, _The Master prefers to have her naked and accessible whenever they are home together. He never knows when he might start to crave her eager body, struggling against it yet begging for it._

And here’s a surprise, she finds her breath becoming a little bit shallow as she turns the page and sees an image of a curvy blonde woman, tied spread-eagle, face down, to a bed--a bed not unlike Steve’s, come to think of it. Her pussy is shaved and clearly displayed, vulnerable and on offer. The woman in the photo is peeping over her shoulder, and the look on her face could be fear, or anticipation, or conflicted lust. And the beauty of it is that it’s up to the viewer to decide.

The caption for that one: _She think she knows what’s coming next._

 _Jesus._ Natasha turns the page, and notices as she does that her hand is trembling, just a little bit.

The next page. A photograph of a woman, kneeling down. But the focus is not on her, but rather on the planes of her back, the roundness of her naked ass, pristine and pale--but not for long, it would seem, judging by the man standing behind her, his arm raised and drawn back, in the seconds just before he brings down the riding crop that he is holding. His expression is clearly visible in the photo--it is one of intense concentration, and something else. Something almost feral.

The caption: _He will mark her and punish her and subdue her until she surrenders._

The next image is of a woman, again naked, kneeling on the floor, her hands presumably bound behind her back. There is someone standing behind her--most likely a man, given what little one can see of him--and her head is bowed, but her hair is short, and so the thick black collar around her neck is clearly visible, contrasting sharply against her alabaster skin. The man’s hands hover close to her throat, the implication being that he has just fastened the collar.

The caption: _He has collared and claimed her._

Here, Natasha looks up from the book. She’s disturbed--not by the contents of the book, but rather her reaction to them. For she is very, very aroused. The dampness in between her legs has grown at an alarmingly fast rate, and the deeper she delves into this book, the more intense her arousal becomes. Which is, on the one hand, rather frustrating, seeing as how Steve isn’t here to help with that particular dilemma, but on the other hand...it’s a little disconcerting, to see this part of herself. Certainly, Natasha has known for a while that she has certain tastes that are little less than vanilla--with Clint, one of the few people she trusts, the sex had on occasion gotten rough. But she knew then that the rough sex was what she preferred, and it wasn’t to Clint’s tastes. Beyond Clint, she hasn’t bothered to explore those...inclinations. Finding someone that she trusts is difficult enough. Add these sexual interests, and it becomes even more difficult.

And now, there’s Steve, and he’s--well, not just willing. But downright _enthusiastic_. And she trusts him. So there’s no reason not to pursue this…

 _Still._ Slowly, carefully, she closes the book and turns to look out at the city skyline, and think.

* * *

“Natasha.”

She mumbles a half-hearted protest, but the voice persists. “Natasha. C’mon. Wake up.”

Through the fog of her sleep, Natasha recognizes the voice as Steve’s, and realizes that he must have finally returned to the Tower. She lifts her head up and cringes as she hears her neck pop. “Ow.”

“Ow is right.” Steve is standing over her, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “I’m impressed you managed to scrunch yourself into that tight a ball. You’re sleeping in a _huge_ chair, what’s the need to be tiny?”

Natasha shrugs. “Guess I’m just used to spartan conditions. I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

“Napping is for the weak?” Steve guesses. “Sorry, Nat, but napping is also for people who fuck half the night away.”

“Unless you’ve got the benefit of super-soldier serum,” Nat grumbles. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.” Steve rumples his hair. “I’m gonna hop in the shower for a minute to try to wash the stink of government bureaucracy off of me.”

Natasha watches him head off to the bathroom, and fights the temptation to flee. She hadn’t meant to doze off in Steve’s rooms...but then, why did she come here to begin with? The obvious answer is, of course, the one she doesn’t care to think about- _-because you wanted to be near him-_ -and so she simply doesn’t. She simply waits, with all the patience of a spider.

She doesn’t have to wait long. Steve’s out of the shower in less than ten minutes, and he’s emerging from the bathroom just a couple of minutes after that, his short blonde hair standing up in tiny damp spikes, his jeans slung low against his hips, his shirt clinging to his chest in a few damp patches. It looks as though he barely took the time to dry himself thoroughly.

“How was--” Natasha starts to say, but cuts herself off as Steve strides swiftly across the room and comes to a stop by the armchair. He places a hand on either arm rest and leans in, looming overhead. The room is dim now, so it’s difficult to see his face. But his voice is audible enough--it’s almost a soft growl.

“So you just decided to come into my rooms and hang out here all day?”

Steve reaches out and places his hand against her chin, sweeping his thumb against her skin, and tilts her face up to him. And there’s nothing growly in his expression, not at all. He’s as transparent and honest as ever, and doesn’t bother to hide that he is very pleased to be here, in Natasha’s company. He drives this point home as he leans down and in and locks her into a soft, lazy kiss that seems to go on forever.

The longer the kiss goes, the more insistent it seems to get, and soon Natasha is rising from her seat so that Steve doesn’t have to break his neck and so that she can get better leverage. The fire between them is building, burning hotter--

Steve pulls away. “Good god, woman.”

“Too much?” she smirks.

“Not nearly enough, more like. But not now.” Steve espies the book that she had been looking at before she dozed off. “That boring, huh?”

Natasha glances at the book, then back at Steve, and then nervously shifts her eyes away from him. “Not boring.”

“It...did it make you feel uncomfortable?”

She doesn’t want to lie to him. “Yes,” she finally admits.

The breath that Steve exhales is a long one. Finally, “Jesus, Nat, I’m sorry. I thought you were--”

“It made _me uncomfortable because it turned me on,” Natasha blurts._

The transformation that Steve undergoes in the next few seconds is almost comical. First, there’s relief in his eyes. And then confusion. And then, finally, a very, very hungry lust. _Oh dear_ , Natasha finds herself thinking,  _What have I encouraged?_

But Steve is Steve before he’s a lust-driven dynamo of super-soldier-sadistic-sex, and he manages to rearrange his features into some semblance of civility and pleasant, neutral interest. “Being turned on is a problem?” he asks.

Natasha knows she’s being illogical. “It’s just strange to me, to be able to pursue this.”

“I have an idea.” Steve gives her hand a gentle tug. “Why don’t we pursue this conversation over here in the bed?”

The snort that she answers with is deliberately unladylike. “I’ve heard that one a few times.” But she acquiesces and allows him to pull her over to the bed. Soon they’re both propped up on pillows, and Steve has one arm looped low around Natasha’s waist, pulling her into the juncture of his arm and shoulder. It’s cuddling, without a doubt, and strangely, Natasha finds that she doesn’t mind. Particularly not when she’s so hyper-aware of Steve’s body, warm and solid, his chest gently rising and falling with his steady breaths, his eyes studying her as she cradles the book in her lap.

Steve gently pulls a lock of her hair back so that he can see the delicate skin of her neck. To his surprise, Natasha seems to be unable to resist and so tilts her head away, further exposing the delicate white skin. He leans in and ghosts his lips over her neck, practically able to taste the warmth radiating from her. Slowly, slowly, he presses his lips against her skin and then immediately draws away--whether it’s because he is teasing her, or is unprepared for the rush of arousal that hits him, he doesn’t quite know.

“Steve,” Natasha whispers, and he knows the sound of encouragement when he hears it. So he gets a little daring, and this time, he initiates a series of open-mouthed kisses that work there way from just below her ear all the way down to just above her clavicle, and it’s right there, at the little point of soft skin, that he finishes off with a tiny but distinctive nip. The hiss that Natasha emits right then is further confirmation of what he’s beginning to suspect.

“So,” he says, and he has to restrain his smile when Natasha groans.

“Really, Steve? _Talking?”_

“My room, my rules.” He gives a little suggestive smirk. “So you say it feels strange to be able to pursue this? To pursue _what,_ exactly?”

“Submission. Giving up control.” Natasha actually looks a little awkward. “Being open to...alternative ways of getting sexual pleasure.”

“Do you mean pleasure through pain? Through being dominated?”

She nods, jerkily, in agreement, and her body actually trembles a little as he says this. Steve wants to tighten his hold on her, offer her some sort of comfort, but decides the best way he can do this is just continue along this line of communication. “If you’re turned off or don’t want to pursue something--in this case, pain, or impact play, that’s fine, Nat. All you have to do is say so. If that’s one of your limits, that’s absolutely fine.”

“ _No,_ ” Natasha chokes out. “You’re misunderstanding me.” She pauses, and then blurts out, “I _do_ want that. It _does_ turn me on.”

Now Steve gets it, and he feels a moment of strong kinship with her. “And you...what? Feel ashamed, or weird admitting it?”

They’re both a little surprised by Natasha’s response--it’s one of the more honest things she’s ever uttered.

“It feels so strange to want this. What does--I mean, you know what I have to do. I’ve done this before, countless times. You’d be amazed--actually, no, you wouldn’t, what twisted assholes some of my targets have been. And I’ve never felt a single ounce of genuine interest or arousal when having to do those things...” She pauses, then adds, very softly, “at least with anyone I didn’t trust.  So to sit here and say, yes, Steve, I am interested in you tying me up and fucking me and maybe hurting or humiliating or controlling me a little--it makes me feel a little like a freak. What if--what if I tell you something I want and it makes you ashamed or disgusted?”

“You’re afraid _I’m_ gonna disapprove of _you?_ ” Steve almost wants to laugh. “I have to say, doll, that’s refreshing. And here I was worried you were gonna freak about Captain America being some sexual deviant because I’m interested in the same damned things.” He plants a firm kiss on top of her head and holds her tighter for a moment. “Look, tomorrow or some time, read those other books that I sent home with you. They talk a bit about the psychology behind what we’re thinking and doing. But for now, how about we just set aside our reservations and be honest with each other about what we want?” He gestures toward the photography book. “I mean, c’mon, we’ve got an illustrated guide.”  
  
A few minutes later, after they’ve turned the first few pages and silently taken in the same images that Natasha had begun to study earlier, Natasha suddenly chuckles quietly.

“Are riding crops particularly funny?” Steve asks her.

“Not at all. But this has got to be one of the most unique bonding experiences I’ve ever heard of or imagined.” Natasha tilts her head up and actually initiates a kiss, and it’s surprisingly sweet and soft. Then she turns the page again--this time to the pictures she has not yet encountered. The first picture is of a nude woman, her back to the photographer and her arms extended and held firmly by two men, while a third one hovers close to her ass, in the act of inserting a phallus into her from behind.

 _Next page-_ -but as she turns her attention to the next picture, Nat is keenly aware, not just of the sudden, hardening bulge of Steve, but of the heavy, languorous arousal rising within herself. But then she’s paying more attention to the photo, of a petite brunette who is kneeling, naked, on a bed. Her arms are bound and stretched out above her, and as a result, her breasts are taut, all the better to display her nipples, mercilessly distended by the nipple clamps fastened to them. The woman’s torment is made all the worse by the fact that someone, just beyond the frame of the photo, is tugging at the chains attached to the clamps.

Steve lets out a breath, almost a low hiss. Natasha tries very hard not to smirk at this little tell of his, and if she’s honest with herself, she’s just relieved to know that she’s not the only one who finds this a compelling image. “Something catch your eye, Rogers?”

“Maybe,” he growls, and if he thinks that the searing kiss he gives her then distracts her from the fact that his hand is reaching under her shirt, tracing along the soft skin of her belly, then stroking the top of her breasts, he’s deluding himself. But she’s not about to protest, anyway, not when he begins to roll her nipple between his fingers, first slowly, and then with a suddenly sharp pinch. The unexpected small shot of pain shoots right to her pussy, and _christ,_ she’s completely soaked, and she actually moans. Steve chuckles in her mouth as he continues to kiss her. But it’s got less to do with kissing and more to do with tongue-fucking at this point.

“To hell with this book,” Steve pauses long enough to mutter before he pulls away long enough to yank off his own shirt and then start to work on Natasha’s. Not wanting to bother too much with the hassle of buttons, Steve suddenly jerks her shirt open, and any protest she might think to make about the expense or damage dies on her lips the second she sees Steve’s face, fierce with a concentrated intensity. No one--not even Natasha--would be crazy enough to get in between Steve and his prey when he looks like this.

_Lucky her._

 


End file.
